Mardi Gras 2024

 

PO Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Party On!

Or

Not

        “Hello, my name is Phil and I’m and alcoholic and a binge drinker.” And I should add “Carnival, and especially Mardi Gras Day, is my time to shine; I’m in my element; it’s my jam and I’m right at home with all the drunks, amateur or professional; newbie or seasoned. I’m there. I drink and I love to drink”. Unfortunately, I’m not really good at it.

        I’ve been to Carnival and Mardi Gras for decades and although I have refined my behavior, the result is overwhelmingly constant, I get drunk, plastered, inebriated, snockered, intoxicated and tipsier than tipsy; so much so, that I frighten the neighbors, traffic, pedestrians and wind up pissing off those close to me. I’m not a gentleman drunk. I used to vomit but not in recent years, sometimes I used to pass out and wet myself, but not in recent years. I am neither proud nor ashamed.

        Two conditions that contribute to the perpetuation of my affliction: I enjoy the feeling and I don’t have hangovers; sometimes I run into things, trip and maybe fall. Those times are rarer and rarer because I hope to control my drinking so that I may continue into my older years bent but not broken.

        I come from a family of drinkers; it was common among my elders to consider a night at a bar drinking as family entertainment and in my days it was not uncommon for adults to spend four or five hours at a local tavern drinking, gossiping, communing and even singing (en masse) favorite songs. True. And I grew up with that as role models of behavior. The only tenets were that, in public, it was bad form to converse (especially in pubs) about sex, politics or religion. Behavior that I hold sacrosanct to this day.

        New Orleans, and the French Quarter in particular, felt immediately like home when I first arrived many years ago. Drinking in public; twenty-four hours a day, at more than reasonable prices for strong libations suited me fine; my first Carnivals had me toting a gallon jug of heady concoctions as I joined the fray on Bourbon Street. Nightly. And still making it back to work the next day like all the rest of the slow burning trash I caroused with.

        Mardi Gras the day, has always been extra special to me. I don’t enjoy parades but that doesn’t stop me from becoming one, much to the chagrin of those around me. Me, in costume, weaving my way on the streets cluttered with the detritus of bodies, boobs and beads is a sight to behold, and I don’t recommend anyone following in my footsteps. Not only am I a hard act to follow but you really don’t want to live the lush life that I have; there’s no future in it.

        Three things happen to me under the influence: I get happily quiet, I get philosophical, and at extremes I get maudlin. I am not loud, aggressive or mean unless provoked. I generally just want to be left alone in a semi-comatose revelry. I feel the quiet of finally being able to shut the world out and not have the awareness of daily life and responsibilities; the world’s problems drop away and I am at peace in my cocoon of alcoholic miasma. Comfortably numb.

        I’ve gotten better in recent years and I am now allowed the freedom of venturing out unsupervised and the expectations of moderate behavior are met and appreciated. I find it better to be appreciated for my sense of control than to be subjected to the ire, anger and sometimes pity by losing it. I’ve learned that because of my weak personality, in drinking, once I begin, be it seven in the morning or seven at night, I don’t want to stop and usually don’t until bedtime. Overcoming temptation has never been a strong suit of mine. Two drinks and I’m off and running, and, there is no such thing as one drink.

        I generally go out without credit cards and a limited amount of cash, say twenty dollars. I go out on foot and that makes me aware that any trip out will have to be followed by that same amount covered back, upright and ambulatory. I like to believe that I can get a contact high being out and in recent years have come to be more reflective of Carnivals past and these days the high spirits of those around me make me smile in their simple and naïve interpretation of celebrations that include childlike behavior and puppy-like antics. I reflect that in my day, there were big dogs on the loose and now, out there, it seems so civilized that my self control has become a reward rather than an affliction. 

        I save myself for home to toast the day and know that on Wednesday I will start a period of complete sobriety; Debbie says that it’s to give our livers a break and that’s good enough for me.

        Growing up in the projects with five children from four fathers (that we know of) and a strapping one hundred and eighty pound nearly six foot tall redheaded mother that drank a case of beer a day and adults that ruled by violent eruptions rather than abstemious reasoning is a reflection sobering enough and gives me pause when I wake up in the morning with the realization that I probably didn’t need that last drink.

        My other challenges are that my damn doctors consistently reassure me of my great health conditions although they would like me to cut down on my juicing. My great inspiration is my partner who keeps reminding me that if, in fact, I believe in my immortality that I shouldn’t mess with the fate of all drinkers: stupid behavior, bad liver and broken hearts. Fun fact: you alienate more good people with drinking than you attract.