Mayor of Ponce pays tribute to New Orleans
So a lawyer, a stockbroker, and a fuck up (me) go to New Orleans for Mardi Gras….
I draw a blur as I try to write this on Ash Wednesday. Thirty-six hours in New Orleans and it all runs together. I just returned from the Popeye’s on Ponce in the hope that some fried Cajun crud might stir up some voodoo in these finger tips. Maybe this bourbon in my root beer will help me scratch this piece together, or at least cure these shaky hands. If so, I’ll consider Popeye’s for a co-byline....
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DANGEROUS MOVES: Parade of follies
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Our heads are spinning as we walk down the halls. Macaroni art and essays with bad penmanship and badder grammer line the walls. Motivational sentiments hang from the ceiling: “There are no short cuts.” “There are no excuses.” “Knowledge IS power.” It all makes sense now, even though it’s not true. Sure, knowledge is power, but not as powerful as old money and royal blue blood lines. These poor black kids will find that out soon enough.
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That’s when the loudspeaker clicks on, “... If there’s anyone in the building, please report to the principal’s office!”
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We’re in an elementary school in a parish just outside the French Quarter. Its 10 p.m., we’ve been drinking since this morning, and we’ve just been called to the principal’s office. God, I love Mardi Gras.