It was the best thing I've ever seen.
Sunday, after wiping the relieved and triumphant tears from my eyes, I could think of nothing else but to venture out to the French Quarter, to celebrate with about 300 thousand fellow elated members of the Who Dat nation. The second I opened my front door, I was besieged by the clamor of my neighbors, hollering, "Woo!"-ing, sending off fireworks. Shouts of "WHO DAT!" rang out back and forth throughout Holy Cross. It was like the whole world was shouting all at once. Well, our whole world anyway.
I ran to catch the bus, not even checking the time. I wound up having to wait about a half an hour. I was running in place, with excitement, shivering in the cold and wind from being up on the bridge. And I could not stop smiling. Every few seconds, some cars would drive past, presumably on their way to the Quarter. There were Saints flags flying, window soap declaring our victory. And they honked at me, in my Saints shirt; shouts of "WHO DAT" sounded from the passing windows, hands with victory fingers raised. I laughed my ass off, so loudly that the bridge tender came out to see what was going on. I told her, "This is so much fun, I almost don't need to go to the Quarter!"
Glad I didn't follow that quip.
The bus couldn't go past Elysian Fields Ave because of traffic, so we all got out, joking and laughing and high-fiving with each other. Twenty people early ejected off the bus, and not a one bitching about it. Why would we? There was nothing wrong with the Universe anymore, nothing. Frenchman St., all the Bohemian, artist-y folk, dancing in the street singing Saints songs. Decatur St., hard-core, angry freaks and punks, hugging and smiling.
Bourbon St... Oh wow. It was the best thing I've ever seen. Ever. This is what Mardi Gras would be like, without all those idiot drunken frat boys, and skanky fallen debutantes, without all those angry Jesus zealots. Everybody was kind of drunk, but not too drunk. Everybody was smiling, laughing, high-fiving each other. Hugging total strangers, making way for each other. Saying "excuse me" when they passed, "Sorry" when they bumped into each other. There was no aggression, no crime. No crime! That whole night, there were exactly three incidents reported. And only one of them was an assault. One. The entire three + hours of the Super Bowl, were the first recorded felony-less hours in history. This is how good we can be.
I stood out there, leaning against a pole, just watching, incredulous. Having people come up and hug me, throw an arm around my shoulder and bellow out lyrics to "Get Crunk!" for me to sing along. I went into OZ, to see my friend who bartends there. He bought me a drink, and so did three other people, because I was "cute". I wound up dancing with this huge drag queen, all decked out in gold lame' and a glittery wig.
Later, I realized I'd stayed out way past the bus. I trudged down Bourbon St. toward Esplanade, figuring out what to do. Suddenly it occurred to me; Hell - If our precious Saints can win the Super Bowl, then I can certainly walk the piddly four miles home. And I did. And it hurt a little, and it was freezing, but it was fun. I walked the whole way giggling like a school girl.
Hey, anything's possible.
So tonight was the parade. For me, it started same as always; waiting for the bus on top of the bridge. This time a few people were up there with me. After a while they trailed off, tired of waiting, till it was just me and this 20-something young man. He said he was not going to the parade, he was due at Chris Owen's for work. He called the Ride Line and was told that all the buses were stuck at Canal St., until after. We looked at each other, began walking. We got to Poland and saw the cab turning down the street. I said "I've got five towards it, you?" he said "Yeah, I got five" and we ran for it. The driver took us as far as he could, which was around Orleans and Claiborne. Dude and I shook hands, and parted company, each absorbed by the parade goers in different directions.
Lol, I actually tried to get down Canal St. at first. I made it about half a block, before the packed sidewalk just came to a complete stop; and suddenly I was enveloped. We were crammed together, unmoving, tighter than the craziest huge mosh pit I've ever seen. And nobody was freaking out. We moved maybe an inch a minute. At one point there was a guy right behind me who was about 6'7" or so. I asked him how far he could see. He told me it was that packed for at least two blocks. Closer to the corner of Burgundy, we were stalled by a group of people coming from the other way, open drinks in their hands, moving quite against the crowd. One lady got pissed and said something to which one of the facing guys took offense. There was a second of raised voices, and two arms reached up to grab at the other. Somebody from behind us shouted out, "Go Saints!"... and the two actually quit fighting, smiled at each other, said "Aw, hell", and passed without incident. The whole crowd started making progress, and people pushing from behind began to crush us against the people in front. For a second, I almost panicked. But I told myself, no wait. These are good people, and you are in a safe place. This is a Saints crowd, and they won't let you freak out. It worked. I turned to the lady next to me and said, "Well, I hope this fellow in front of me is good-looking, because he and I just got intimate." She laughed, and the guy turned around and smiled, and I said to the lady, "Oh okay, yep; he's good-looking." and we all laughed. A second later, we made it close enough to the corner for me to escape to Iberville St.
I headed towards the Doubletree hotel on South Peters, being the place I usually go to watch the parades. It's generally calmer, and family-populated. My gawdson used to love running around over there, playing with whatever kids were also waiting for the parades. OMG it was fucking packed! Everybody there, with dazed looks on their faces, like they couldn't believe it either. We kept glancing around.
The parade arrived about two freezing hours later. Drew Brees almost fell off his float, he was so happy, doing his crazy little white-guy-can't-dance dance, with the most beatific smile on his face. I got a lot of high-fives from players for my sign, which read "Thank You, Saints... We needed Dat!!!" Jonathan Vilma read it, pointed at us, shouted "No, thank You!!!"
I got a cheap, small gold strand of beads from Pierre Thomas; the kind you usually throw out or hand over to some little kid. I'm never going to let them go, ever. I also got a little parade umbrella from... somebody up top of the Reggie Bush/Pierre Thomas float. I don't know who threw it, but it was mangled by a gust of wind about ten minutes later. I'm totally going to fix it.
These past three days... I tell you, I have seen the absolute best we can be. I've seen a New Orleans happier than it has been since before that cunt of a hurricane. A major US city of over 300,000 went from burnt out and embittered to hopeful, exuberant, and motivated, literally overnight. And it was due to what amounts to a really silly reason. I mean, all of our problems and snags, and stresses and tribulations are still here. But if 45 men in black and gold can overcome the odds so highly stacked against them... Then ours just seem a whole lot less overwhelming.
Chris Rose wrote "...Sunday night was about the past, and erasing four decades of football misery, a run of seasons at times so bad that, this week, you hardly ever heard that media say “Saints fans” with out first affixing the term “long-suffering” in front of it..." I think the same could be said for us. Tonight, it really felt like all our seasons of frustrations and suffering were washed away, erased by hope and unity.
What does that say to me? If I was never convinced before that miracles can and do happen, and that the power of the Will can move mountains... then I do now.
I mean, hell; just in this last week, pigs have flown. Hell has frozen over. The sun has risen from the West. Crows are flying upside down, and chickens have grown teeth.
And Vince Lombardi is getting CRUNK in heaven with Buddy D.
And as holy Who Dat is my nation, there is No Place like this place.
Thank you, Saints.
.
I ran to catch the bus, not even checking the time. I wound up having to wait about a half an hour. I was running in place, with excitement, shivering in the cold and wind from being up on the bridge. And I could not stop smiling. Every few seconds, some cars would drive past, presumably on their way to the Quarter. There were Saints flags flying, window soap declaring our victory. And they honked at me, in my Saints shirt; shouts of "WHO DAT" sounded from the passing windows, hands with victory fingers raised. I laughed my ass off, so loudly that the bridge tender came out to see what was going on. I told her, "This is so much fun, I almost don't need to go to the Quarter!"
Glad I didn't follow that quip.
The bus couldn't go past Elysian Fields Ave because of traffic, so we all got out, joking and laughing and high-fiving with each other. Twenty people early ejected off the bus, and not a one bitching about it. Why would we? There was nothing wrong with the Universe anymore, nothing. Frenchman St., all the Bohemian, artist-y folk, dancing in the street singing Saints songs. Decatur St., hard-core, angry freaks and punks, hugging and smiling.
Bourbon St... Oh wow. It was the best thing I've ever seen. Ever. This is what Mardi Gras would be like, without all those idiot drunken frat boys, and skanky fallen debutantes, without all those angry Jesus zealots. Everybody was kind of drunk, but not too drunk. Everybody was smiling, laughing, high-fiving each other. Hugging total strangers, making way for each other. Saying "excuse me" when they passed, "Sorry" when they bumped into each other. There was no aggression, no crime. No crime! That whole night, there were exactly three incidents reported. And only one of them was an assault. One. The entire three + hours of the Super Bowl, were the first recorded felony-less hours in history. This is how good we can be.
I stood out there, leaning against a pole, just watching, incredulous. Having people come up and hug me, throw an arm around my shoulder and bellow out lyrics to "Get Crunk!" for me to sing along. I went into OZ, to see my friend who bartends there. He bought me a drink, and so did three other people, because I was "cute". I wound up dancing with this huge drag queen, all decked out in gold lame' and a glittery wig.
Later, I realized I'd stayed out way past the bus. I trudged down Bourbon St. toward Esplanade, figuring out what to do. Suddenly it occurred to me; Hell - If our precious Saints can win the Super Bowl, then I can certainly walk the piddly four miles home. And I did. And it hurt a little, and it was freezing, but it was fun. I walked the whole way giggling like a school girl.
Hey, anything's possible.
So tonight was the parade. For me, it started same as always; waiting for the bus on top of the bridge. This time a few people were up there with me. After a while they trailed off, tired of waiting, till it was just me and this 20-something young man. He said he was not going to the parade, he was due at Chris Owen's for work. He called the Ride Line and was told that all the buses were stuck at Canal St., until after. We looked at each other, began walking. We got to Poland and saw the cab turning down the street. I said "I've got five towards it, you?" he said "Yeah, I got five" and we ran for it. The driver took us as far as he could, which was around Orleans and Claiborne. Dude and I shook hands, and parted company, each absorbed by the parade goers in different directions.
Lol, I actually tried to get down Canal St. at first. I made it about half a block, before the packed sidewalk just came to a complete stop; and suddenly I was enveloped. We were crammed together, unmoving, tighter than the craziest huge mosh pit I've ever seen. And nobody was freaking out. We moved maybe an inch a minute. At one point there was a guy right behind me who was about 6'7" or so. I asked him how far he could see. He told me it was that packed for at least two blocks. Closer to the corner of Burgundy, we were stalled by a group of people coming from the other way, open drinks in their hands, moving quite against the crowd. One lady got pissed and said something to which one of the facing guys took offense. There was a second of raised voices, and two arms reached up to grab at the other. Somebody from behind us shouted out, "Go Saints!"... and the two actually quit fighting, smiled at each other, said "Aw, hell", and passed without incident. The whole crowd started making progress, and people pushing from behind began to crush us against the people in front. For a second, I almost panicked. But I told myself, no wait. These are good people, and you are in a safe place. This is a Saints crowd, and they won't let you freak out. It worked. I turned to the lady next to me and said, "Well, I hope this fellow in front of me is good-looking, because he and I just got intimate." She laughed, and the guy turned around and smiled, and I said to the lady, "Oh okay, yep; he's good-looking." and we all laughed. A second later, we made it close enough to the corner for me to escape to Iberville St.
I headed towards the Doubletree hotel on South Peters, being the place I usually go to watch the parades. It's generally calmer, and family-populated. My gawdson used to love running around over there, playing with whatever kids were also waiting for the parades. OMG it was fucking packed! Everybody there, with dazed looks on their faces, like they couldn't believe it either. We kept glancing around.
The parade arrived about two freezing hours later. Drew Brees almost fell off his float, he was so happy, doing his crazy little white-guy-can't-dance dance, with the most beatific smile on his face. I got a lot of high-fives from players for my sign, which read "Thank You, Saints... We needed Dat!!!" Jonathan Vilma read it, pointed at us, shouted "No, thank You!!!"
I got a cheap, small gold strand of beads from Pierre Thomas; the kind you usually throw out or hand over to some little kid. I'm never going to let them go, ever. I also got a little parade umbrella from... somebody up top of the Reggie Bush/Pierre Thomas float. I don't know who threw it, but it was mangled by a gust of wind about ten minutes later. I'm totally going to fix it.
These past three days... I tell you, I have seen the absolute best we can be. I've seen a New Orleans happier than it has been since before that cunt of a hurricane. A major US city of over 300,000 went from burnt out and embittered to hopeful, exuberant, and motivated, literally overnight. And it was due to what amounts to a really silly reason. I mean, all of our problems and snags, and stresses and tribulations are still here. But if 45 men in black and gold can overcome the odds so highly stacked against them... Then ours just seem a whole lot less overwhelming.
Chris Rose wrote "...Sunday night was about the past, and erasing four decades of football misery, a run of seasons at times so bad that, this week, you hardly ever heard that media say “Saints fans” with out first affixing the term “long-suffering” in front of it..." I think the same could be said for us. Tonight, it really felt like all our seasons of frustrations and suffering were washed away, erased by hope and unity.
What does that say to me? If I was never convinced before that miracles can and do happen, and that the power of the Will can move mountains... then I do now.
I mean, hell; just in this last week, pigs have flown. Hell has frozen over. The sun has risen from the West. Crows are flying upside down, and chickens have grown teeth.
And Vince Lombardi is getting CRUNK in heaven with Buddy D.
And as holy Who Dat is my nation, there is No Place like this place.
Thank you, Saints.
.