For 12 years I lived on a little cul-de-sac named Faerie Queen Lane in the shadow of Owen Stadium here in Norman. The south end was famous for spontaneous gatherings and parties the likes of which would've made even Bradoween seem like a tea-party. Sorry, Otis, it was the 70s, need I say more? There was one particularly spontaneous car-port party that culminated with a bunch of us (and baby) piling into Nurse Mary's white Ford cargo van and trekking to the local FM station in OKC to deliver a Coors tall-boy (with straw as requested) to the DJ who so obligingly played Clapton's Layla. And somewhere I have a recording of The Saga of Faerie Queen Lane when the entire south end ended up at my place and we turned on the tape recorder, opened several cases of beer and got creative.
And then there was the trek to New Orleans. For Mardi Gras. Me, Nurse Mary, Pancho, Pablo and Deadly Diana threw a mattress into the back of Mary's van, packed up some sterno, a cook stove, hit the liquor store, bought some groceries and headed south. In the dark of the night. In a blizzard. We'd heard that there were camp grounds in New Orleans for Mardis Gras and, not to worry, public showers and bathrooms, too. So who needed a hotel?
We arrived about 10 hours later having had to creep along the highway all the way into Texas. Sure enough we found a camp ground right off the main parade route. But, we discovered New Orleans was in the midst of a transit strike, so there were no trolleys running. That meant that visits to the Quarter were going to have to be by Van and not as frequent as we were hoping. But our camp ground was a happy one and we soon befriended some local folks who'd built a viewing platform for the parade. It put you at eye level with the floats and was a prime bead catching station.
The first couple of days set the routine - awake around 9 am, a little home cooked breakfast of cornbeef hash and what else I don't remember. Then the bottle of bourbon or a beer would get cracked open and we would start the day. We'd walk over to the parade and yell for doubloons and beads. This would continue for the day into the night. The camp ground was nice, the porta-potties relatively clean, but then....
By the next couple of days, it was clear there was going to be no maintenance to the porta-potties. We'd also discovered that there were no public showers to be found and the sink at the gas station on the corner was woefully insufficient for bathing. However, on one walk around the area I spied a spigot - I rushed back to the van, grabbed some shampoo, dashed back to the spigot, turned it on and commenced to washing my hair and any other parts I could reach. Before long, several other camp folk joined me and we had a bathing party on the sidewalk with that spigot.
Lack of sufficient bathing aside, the port-a-potty situation was becoming a dire one. For me at least. Uh, well, let's just say I seized up a bit. Nurse Mary (a bonifide RN) had a bottle of Milk of Magnesia and handed it to me. I asked how much should I take. She said to start drinking and she'd tell me when to stop. I did. And she................did. I drank about three quarters of the bottle. By about 4 am I didn't give a shit about the condition of the port-a-potties. Well, actually, I did give a shit.................
Day three or four we did a little sight seeing, making it into the Quarter, shoulder to shoulder with about a million other revelers. More parades to view - we'd learned to trade for beads. I'd get up on Pablo's shoulders and trade tall boys for beads, haggling with the Cajuns on the floats. I guess nowadays a beer wouldn't cut it, I'd have to flash some boobdom to get the job done now.
I remember chatting with a cop at one stop who warned us not to go beyond certain boundaries in the Quarter - straying thus could result in a quick knifing or other bodily harm. He also said the cops were there to keep people safe and glass off the street. In other words, they were looking the other way if joints appeared or hallucinogenics traded. That was good to know. Heh. We landed at Pat O'Brien's, sat outside on the patio and tasted our first Hurricanes - up until about a month ago, I still had my souvenir glass from that outing. My dear sweet Katy Kat sacrificed it when I'd unknowingly shut her in the office for the night.
By this time, we were all getting rather rank. No shower or bath in four or five days and all five of us sleeping in the back of the van together, well, it was bringing the party down. I was getting desperate. I believe it was day six, and our second trek into the Quarter. We hit O'Brien's about 5 pm and didn't budge for the next 7 or 8 hours. At about hour 7.5 I befriended a group of rugby players. I latched on to them when I discovered they had a hotel room and a shower!!! Seven hours of Hurricanes had obliterated any sense of shame or discretion. I was prepared to offer my body for a shower. And said so.
The rugby team was ready to mosey to another bar, I bid farewell to my buds,
happily proclaiming I was going to get a shower! But in the next bar,
I was unceremoniously dumped. Abandoned. Forsaken. Now maybe it was valor in
not wishing to take advantage of one in such a drunken sotted
vulnerable condition. Or maybe they were gay. Whatever the case, I was now in
the middle of the French Quarter, incredibly inebriated, and alone, my pals
long since gone back to the campground.
I sat on the cold stone of a low wall, a blanket of people strewn across the grass in front of me. A guy sat next to me and asked me if I wanted to go to a party. I kinda looked dumbly at him, thinking, go to a party? This is the party. Mardi Gras, dude.
I spied a dark van rolling by and which stopped at the light. It was headed in the direction of the campground - which was about 3 miles down the road. I walked right up to the back of it and banged on the door. It opened and a few bleary eyes stared at me. I asked if I could get a ride and they said sure. I told them where I was going and, sure enough, they got me there. I crawled into our van, waking Pablo and Diane and, uh, interrupting Mary and Pancho...after hearing my story we all cursed the rugby players. I wasn't so crushed about being abandoned as I was about the loss of a shower. They had to be gay.
The next morning we rolled out of town and made our way home. I walked into my little house, promptly turned on the shower, lathered up, rinsed, repeated, rinsed, repeated, rinsed....I stretched out in the tub and let the water pour over me. I fell asleep to awake just in time to get to work - the 6:30 am shift.
I've wanted to return to New Orleans ever since. I have a great memory of New Orleans and hurricanes. Far different than the tragic memories being created now. Faerie Queen Lane has since given way to stadium expansion and parking lots. The Hurricane glass from O'Brien's is in pieces. But my memories of the greatest party ever in the welcoming arms of that gracious southern city are unshatterable.
The horror the city is now experiencing, along with Biloxi and the numerous towns and communities facing such unimaginable loss is almost too much to fathom. I am numb from watching the footage. I am outraged at the lack of strong - and much needed leadership - from the Whitehouse. I am optimistic that the better side of human nature will prevail in the long run. Do what you can to help.
