Chris Bickford

Last August the float warehouse of the Krewe de Vieux–a satirical Mardi Gras society who lays sole claim to having permit to parade through the night streets of the French Quarter during the Carnival season–caught fire, causing irreparable damage to a number of their floats. In true New Orleanian fashion, the Krewe turned loss into creativity by declaring “All Fired Up!” as the theme for their 2010 parade. The theme has taken on greater meaning in the past week, as the New Orleans Saints begin their own march towards the Super Bowl for the first time in history. Indeed, alongside the flame-haired revelers in red tights marched the corpses of Peyton Manning and other targets of the Saints’ rampage as they journey towards the bright lights of Miami. And, just as ubiquitous as the brass bands blowing out “When the Saints go Marching in” were the chants from the crowd all along the parade route of “Who dat?! Who dat?! Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints?!

We had arrived in New Orleans the night before under a full moon, and spent Saturday getting our bearings and scoping out the best spot for the perfect shot of the parade. In the end, in true New Orleanian spirit, all our planning was cast to the winds, as we were swept along in the energy of the parade. Having begun at the corner of St Peter and Royal in the French Quarter, against the backdrop of a beautiful Quarter Maison and what we hoped was going to be a shiny moon, we found ourselves in short order in the Marigny, the home turf of the Krewe de Vieux, where the Krewe decamped for their post-parade party and all the rest of New Orleans’ bohemians, creatives, and street urchins danced the night away to dj music oustide the taco truck.

And that “perfect shot” we had spent the day scoping out? Well, right now, it’s lying somewhere in the middle of a trash-heap, or more optimistically in the hands of some eagle-eyed parade watcher, who just hasn’t yet figured out how to return to me the 16 gb Compact Flash card they found lying on the streets amid the empty beer cups, beads, matchbooks, puddles of vomit, and cigarette butts, somewhere along the parade route. I suppose it’s my own sacrifice to the gods of Carnival, my own throw to the fire of abandonment that warms revelers in the chilly months of the Carnival season. Unfortunately, the card also contained some video documentation of our epic haul from the OBX to NOLA, plus some truly sick photos of our arrival at our digs in the Tremé, with the full moon sneaking out from the clouds and throwing streaks of god-light down upon my rear-window-shattered Cherokee stallion, as I stood on the back bumper, raising my arm to the sky…see, you’d have to actually see the photo to know what the f–k I’m talking about, and only then would you say, dude, that is SICK!…but my assistant Fede and I are determined to re-create the photo next full moon, along with staging a Storyville-inspired bordello shoot around the grounds of the 150-year-old house we are renting.

As for the rest of the night, here are some highlights: