Throw me a Potato, Mister!

As a sometime frat boy attending a well-known Southern party school, my undergraduate degree was in journalism and alcohol. With that background, one might assume I was prepared for anything. But my first Mardi Gras, which I saw hazily through the fog of grog, escorted by one of the most unforgettable characters to cross my path, was one for the record books.

I came late to Louisiana. Except for trips to New Orleans now and then (you might think of those as “dress rehearsals”) I had never been there, and never saw Baton Rouge until the day I moved there in 1972. Mardi Gras was not a tradition in my life any more than etouffee, gumbo, or rice and gravy. As you can see, those three are now firmly established in the Doyle family. But to this day, I have never attended a Carnival parade on Fat Tuesday in New Orleans.

That doesn’t mean I haven’t celebrated it, though. When my first Mardi Gras approached in 1974, my friend J.C. Hatcher invited me to see it with a few friends of his in Lafayette. I thought it must be a family affair, so I made plans to take along my son Jamey, then just over two years old. We drove from Baton Rouge that morning with L. K. Herlong, a friend of mine from the Advocate, where we all worked at the time.

J.C. was from Kentwood before Britney Spears was born. For those of you who don’t know the place, Kentwood is . . .how shall I put this. . .well, “country” just doesn’t do it justice, but is the best I can come up with for now. J.C. was a faithful representative of Kentwood, but he was also a dyed-in-the-wool Cajun. He loved Lafayette, its university, and its sports programs.

One of his great friends was “Coach” Blanco, husband of our recent governor. I met both of them later that day. Others in our group were Bob “Rip” Henderson, who worked at Evangeline Downs for years; Charlie Lenox of the Lafayette Daily Advertiser, later editor of that publication; and assorted coaches and athletes from USL, as it then was.

This Mardi Gras was truly a red-letter day. I learned how to catch beads without getting my hand stepped on and ate crawfish for the first time. This was a big deal, since my last experience with mudbugs was in biology class in high school. We dissected one. I don’t like crawfish.

J.C. and his wife Flo escorted me through town on a steadily rising tide of food and adult beverages while the parade passed by. As it waned, talk shifted to the next venue, and the group decided to go to a place I’d never heard of called “Sunset.” Sounded interesting to me, so we all piled in our cars and took off up the highway. Lest you worry, I wasn’t driving. I was sleeping in the back seat.

Some indefinite time later, my son Jamey woke me up to bright sunlight and the distant echo of a strange, vaguely French song. We were in the town of Sunset for their Mardi Gras parade. I staggered the couple of blocks to the parade route and found my guests, who were transfixed by a fiddle and accordion ensemble riding in a partially-covered wagon drawn by horses, playing a song later identified to me as “Lache Pas La Patate.” In true Carnival tradition, others on the “float” were throwing things to bystanders. Not beads. Baked sweet potatoes wrapped in foil. Thus I discovered Sunset’s role as the “sweet potato capital of the world.”

That sweet potato was welcome. I was hungry, and wasn’t about to eat any more crawfish.

The queens of any parade, of course, ride on floats. Not in Sunset. They were on the back end of a series of Corvettes. The one I remember most was an ample girl who had been (ahem) well-raised. The car leaned a little to the rear, if you get my drift. As she passed by, I could see the name of the commercial enterprise sponsoring her on the side of the car, taped in place on a poster board: “CORMIER’S FEED AND SEED.” Hmmm.

Sunset is a small town. The parade was fun, but short. So, they ran it through town over and over, three times, so everybody could get a potato and a look at the queens.

In Sunset, I also got my first look at the Courir des Mardi Gras, cowboys on horseback chasing chickens. The chickens were long gone by this time of day and tempers were getting short. The cowboys were blocking our entrance to the four-lane highway between Opelousas and Lafayette, leading to an exchange of pleasantries between my host J.C. and the riders. And that was the first time I heard the phrase, “(BLEEP) YOU. AND THE HORSE YOU RODE IN ON!”

My brother Thomas and his wife Nancy are fleeing the Chicago winter for Fat Tuesday, and I hope I can show them how we celebrate it here. Any of you guys who ride floats—throw me something!! I’ll be the fat guy with the Yankees.

So Laissez les Bon Temps Rouler, mon amis, and I’ll see you guys on the flip.

Songs of Love, but Not for Me

Well, Lake Chuckers, spring is in the air and the sound of love is all around. Birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it. I don’t know this from personal experience, you understand, only the odd movie and catchy tune.

There is a scene in “Four Weddings and a Funeral,” one of my all-time favorites, when Hugh Grant realizes he will probably never get married. In the background Elton John is singing: “They’re writing songs of love, but not for me. . .”

Yeah. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Even though I’ve been married all but about six months of my life since I was 20 years old, now that I’m not, people all of a sudden are trying to pair me off. One of my friends hopefully tried to play cupid the other day, leading me to believe word had spread that I wasn’t going on a date with anybody absent a threat to shoot an arrow in my butt. Gee, you’d think those three divorces might be a hint that . . hmmmm. Let’s just say I am as good at relationships as Dick Cheney was at open government.

Music choices might give you a clue. No Paul McCartney silly love songs for me. I like that angry woman music. Mary Chapin Carpenter used to be my favorite, until the Dixie Chicks came out with a song that contained these lyrics: “Like a fool I lent my soul to love, and it paid me back in change. God help me, am I the only one who ever felt this way?” Now that’s a sing-along I can relate to.

Not that being single is inherently bad. In fact, I’m enjoying every minute of it. Hell, I just bought a new car and didn’t ask anybody’s opinion first. I looked for reasons not to buy it. Tried real hard to think of more practical uses for the money. Bought a beautiful, black car with a push-button ignition.

Doing the single thing, I first looked at a sporty car, the one on the commercials during football games with a push-button ignition and the David Bowie background music. Couldn’t get into it. Too tall (yeah, right). The salesman came up with the line of the month: “Doyle, I can probably get you in that car, but it would take the fire department and the jaws of life to get you out.”

Since I needed the jaws of life to extricate myself from at least one marriage, that wasn’t an experience I wanted to repeat.

But every experience is a teacher, and as a newly single guy, I have learned a few things:

•    You are never too old to enjoy the freedom of throwing your underwear on the floor when you’re through with them. I presume this applies only to men.

•    If you use a really sticky dish on top, there is almost no limit to how high your stack can build up in the sink until you remember to buy dishwasher soap.

•    Never have company more than one day after the maid comes to clean.

•    If your maid speaks only Spanish, it’s helpful to learn certain words. “Socks” are “calcetines.”

•    Empty bedrooms attract adult children.

•    Never leave a teenager in charge of a litter box.

•    Potted plants and kittens don’t mix, particularly when the litter box is full.

•    As a general rule, never date outside your generation. Either way.

•    If you ever give in to the temptation to join a computer-dating site, even “just to see who’s out there,” you will inevitably be matched with at least one of your exes.

•    One of the great rewards in life is becoming friends with an ex, particularly if you share children. Really. Men and women get along much better without the interference of sexual tension.

•    Poetry and dreams are sweeter in my position, because they contain at least the promise of redemptive love. Here are a few stanzas from a good one by James Fenton, as published by Garrison Keillor in Good Poems for Hard Times. It is the favorite of a new friend of mine.


In Paris With You
   
Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful
And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.
I'm one of your talking wounded.
I'm a hostage. I'm marooned.
But I'm in Paris with you.

Yes, I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess I've been through.
I admit I'm on the rebound
And I don't care where are we bound.
I'm in Paris with you.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There's that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I'm in Paris with you.

I talk a good game, as most of you know by now, but I am truly a cockeyed optimist about all things. There is no better wish to leave you than a trip to Paris with a new love for Valentine’s, wherever Paris may be for you.

Go do it. And I’ll see you, smiling, on the flip.