“On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…twelve drummers drumming…”

Usually, by the time the twelfth day of Christmas, also known as Epiphany, rolls around, we’ve had as much of the holidays as we can stand. We kicked off the holidays with Thanksgiving, and since then, we’ve stuffed ourselves on cookies, fruitcake, and spiced nuts, and we’ve drunk way too much eggnog. We’ve had parties and exchanged presents and had low productivity at work. Now, after New Year’s, it’s time to cut back on everything, put our noses to the grindstone, try to keep our new resolutions. In short, it’s time to practice an ascetic lifestyle.

But imagine, if you can, that today is the kickoff of the holiday season. After today, there will be rounds of parties with too much food and alcohol, live music, dances, and parades with outrageous and exorbitant costumes. For about seven weeks, houses will be decorated with lights and wreaths and colorful banners, and children will look forward to a couple of days off school. And imagine that when it is all over, it will be time to practice an ascetic lifestyle.

I’m describing the Carnival season, as it was and still is, in New Orleans.

Mardi Gras is not a one-day event, it is the culmination of a whole season that begins on the Epiphany, January 6th. Today, in New Orleans, the mayor and heads of the Rex and Zulu krewes officially kicked off the season with statements, live music, and king cakes. I counted over 55 parades on the 12-day schedule, fewer than previous years, but still more parades than any other city in the U.S. has all year. The floats survived (is that why they’re called “floats?”), and the New Orleaneans who man them are still as special and amazing and different as they were in 2004, when I lived there. After what they’ve gone through, they’re even more amazing.

I have a friend who’s raising money for the New Orleans Musician’s Clinic, a unique not-for-profit organization that provides medical care for musicians. The t-shirts he’s selling say it all: “New Orleans: Bent, but not broken.”

I saw two sides to New Orleans in the news today. On one side, the Phuny Phorty Phellows will commandeer a streetcar at 7 pm tonight on Canal Street. They’ll have a big party aboard and share two king cakes, one for the men and one for the women. The man and woman who find the two babies hidden inside the cakes will be the Boss and Queen of the krewe.

On the other side of the news, they they identified the body of Barry Cowsill, a member of the band that inspired the TV show “The Partridge Family.” He was last heard from on September 1st, and he probably died from injuries sustained during or after the hurricane.

I’ve been thinking that the rest of the country needs to learn about Mardi Gras, and how to celebrate Carnival season. It’s not just a New Orleans tradition — the holiday is celebrated throughout Louisiana. One little-known fact is that Mobile, Alabama has an even older Mardi Gras tradition than New Orleans.

As a matter of fact, let’s lobby our elected officials and make Mardi Gras a national holiday. Not only so we could have parades and celebrations in every city, but to give us a chance to remember the thousands who were lost in Hurricane Katrina.

One of the symbols of Mardi Gras is the comedy/tragedy symbol, also used to represent theater: Two masks, one happy and the other sad. For months, in New Orleans, all we saw was the sad face. Now that Carnival is here, I’m starting to see signs of the happy one, too. Let’s all smile as we celebrate Mardi Gras, wherever we are.

Before Mardi Gras day arrived, we had seen five parades, experienced Bourbon Street, and even eaten a bit of king cake. But that wasn’t enough for me and Barry, so with some local tips on where to go and what to do, we threw ourselves headlong into Mardi Gras itself.

At seven am., we were already heading out for Zulu, the traditional black parade. They had much more energy, more spunk, than the rest of the parades. There were fewer “throws,” so the crowd went crazy over silly things like plastic cigars from the “Big Shot” float. The most prized item is a hand-painted coconut, which brings good luck to the recipient. We saw a number of them carefully handed from the floats, never thrown. And the costumes were by far the best, from grass skirts to elaborate feathered headpieces, and everyone in blackface.

Now that it was Mardi Gras day, the costumes were out on the street, not just in the parades. Two men shambled down the street wearing huge piles of Spanish Moss. A girl in a candy-striper’s uniform with bubble-gum pink hair took photos with an expensive camera. The Jefferson City Buzzards, the city’s oldest walking club, meandered along the parade route in elegant costumes, exchanging paper flowers for kisses (I got one of those!). The mayor was even wearing a top hat when he rode by on horseback.

In the black neighborhood where we parked, there were barbecues on every block. Not in the backyards, but in the front yards, right out on the sidewalk. Some had even set up in the grass strip in the middle of the street — tables, smokers, coolers, and all.

Walking into the French Quarter, we ran across some Indian “tribes” on their way to the meeting place. There’s an informal competition to see who can come up with the most elaborate beaded and feathered costume for their “chief.” So the tribes marched along under the freeway, chanting and drumming in street clothes, with one person carrying the headpiece, one carrying the armpieces, one carrying the breastplate, one bearing the standard. The chiefs themselves looked tired just from walking around in the leggings.

The costumes and spontaneous parades in the French Quarter were overwhelming. One parade was led by a woman in a wheelchair named “Queen Colleen.” Another was called the “Krewe of Woo-Hoo.” Another one went by with a brass band playing “When the Saints Come Marching In.” There were outrageous costumes, like men wearing nothing but beads and underwear, or two gay men dressed up in tuxedoes with wedding veils. But there were also courtesans in 17th-century gowns. Everyone wearing a costume encouraged photos, and there were plenty of topless women who wanted their pictures taken, too.

The scene on Bourbon Street was beyond insane. Every 2nd story balcony was packed, and the flashing went on both above and below. Also above and below the waist! Signs read, “Huge Ass Beers to Go” and “Jesus Saves.” Besides the Christians and the police, I think we were the only sober people there.

We wandered down to the riverfront, a bit of peace and quiet next to the French Quarter. A fellow with a trumpet serenaded us; we could barely see him in the thick fog. After a bit of respite, we caught our breath and dove back into the madness. But as afternoon faded into evening, the parades ended, the really good costumes went home, and the scene was dominated by the reek of alcohol and trash and the sight of bare flesh and trampled beads. We didn’t stay for the traditional midnight clearing of the Quarter by police on horseback, but headed back to the boat to have a drink and celebrate our safe return.

“Take a look at this, guys,” I said one afternoon, a couple of weeks ago. “The Gambit Weekly has previews of all the Mardi Gras Parades.” Each entry included a map of the route with a list that included the theme, king, queen, number of floats, and an item called “throws.”

I started reading the entries out loud, avoiding the “family-friendly” ones and selecting the more outrageous ones to entertain my two male companions. “We could do this one, Cleopatra. All the women on the floats are female,” I announced with a grin.

Brian perked right up. “I’m there!” he said. And just like that, we were off to our first parade.

Well, maybe not just like that. We decided to take Peepcar, in case parking was a problem. With a car that small, you know you can always pick up the front end and scoot it into the space. First, we had to contend with hideous traffic and bad New Orleans drivers. Pouring rain, dark, wet pavement, lame windshield wipers. We got a little lost near the parade route, so we stopped at a MacDonald’s for directions. The employees were all busy, but there were a few kids hanging around. An ebony-colored 7-foot tall giant with 1/4-inch diamond stud earrings told me the best place to watch the parade was in front of Wal-Mart. I was trying not to stare at his gold bicuspids.

Back at Peepcar, we folded Barry up and stuffed him into the back seat again. But a block later, another stop beckoned. Since Louisiana doesn’t have any open container laws, New Orleans is full of daquiri shops, many of them drive-ins. We walked into a cross between a Wendy’s and a bar. Behind the counter was a whole row of alcoholic slushy machines, with labels like “Hypnotic Chill” and “Hi-Octane.” The three girls ahead of us looked to be about 17, but they all walked out with 24-oz larges.

I tried asking the lady behind the counter (in a place like that, is her job title “bartender,” or “slushy barrista?”) to describe some of the flavors. She just shook her head, “I’ll give y’all a taste. I don’t want to sell you nothin’ without you tastin’ it.” What was she thinking? If I tasted all 16 flavors, I’d be in no shape to continue driving! As it was, I had to overcome twenty-plus years of conditioning just to get into a car with three open containers, my medium-sized amaretto-pineapple safe in the passenger’s hand.

A few blocks later, it was apparent that we were on the parade route by the cars and mobile toilets parked by the side of the road. We parked at Wal-Mart and sat in the car for a while, steaming up the windows in the rain and making inroads on our daquiris. By the time the parade started, we hardly noticed the drizzle, we were so warm inside. The downside was that Brian kept having to leave the parade to find a bathroom.

At first, there were just marching bands and junior ROTC groups. Standard parade fare that we’ve seen in other cities. But then came indications that we weren’t in Kansas any more.

First, there was the queen herself. She sat on a throne in full regalia, about 10 feet up, in front of (not under!) a decorative canopy. The rain poured over the canopy and onto her miserable head, and the poor thing shook and shivered with possible hypothermia. If she spent thousands of dollars and many months having her costume created, she was certainly regretting it now.

And then there were the floats. The rain was nothing compared to the beads that showered down upon us. Metallic, shiny beads in green, gold, and purple. Huge strands of fake pearls that hung down to our knees. Red, blue, pink beads, some shaped like dice or hearts. Translucent chokers in yellow, green, blue, and pink. We smiled and waved at the nice ladies, and they buried us in beads. Every one we caught, plus some we picked up from the street, we put around our necks.

And still came more beads, children’s toys, and baggies of peanuts. Brian caught the eye of several of the ladies, who elected to give him special gifts. One handed him a purple-and-red stuffed pig. Another waved him over to give him a 5-foot-long snake in green and gold with a purple mouth. I caught a purple hippo and a plastic scepter. One of the strangest items was the Sheriff Harry Lee refrigerator magnet — he’d recently had a gastric bypass operation, and the magnet showed a normal-sized version of him wearing hugely oversized pants.

When the parade was finally over, you could hardly see our raincoats under all the beads. If we stooped to pick up another strand from the street, there was a risk that all the weight would simply topple us over. It was impossible to get into the car with them on, and all three of us struggled mightily to get them off. Fortunately, one of the best throws was a large zipper-topped Mardi Gras bag, into which we piled them all. When we returned home, I couldn’t resist weighing them — 21 pounds of beads and toys. Ain’t it wonderful what Mardi Gras does for the Chinese economy?

Living in New Orleans is like living in a foreign country. They even have a huge holiday that the rest of the U.S. doesn’t recognize: Mardi Gras, when all the businesses are closed and the city becomes one big party. We hadn’t planned to participate, but how could we not? Since last week, we’ve seen five parades, had beads thrown to us in the French Quarter, and seen flashers in Bourbon Street. Who knows what will happen tomorrow, on Mardi Gras day itself?

To get you in the mood, here is a little photo essay of our Mardi Gras experience so far. Check it out!

What a haul! Our first parade, Cleopatra, was a bit disappointing, but the “throws” were great! We came home with 21 pounds of beads, 5 plastic cups, a purple pig, and a 5-foot snake.

After taking our photo (above) New Orleans’ finest posed willingly (with Brian’s snake) on the other side of the camera.

Our next parade was Babylon. We parked ourselves across the street from the Pearl (the site of Margaret’s Dad’s first beer) and settled in for the real thing. Unlike Seattle parades, they do not have pooper-scoopers after the horses.

The King of Babylon. Pretty cute, and a lot happier than the Queen of Cleopatra. But then, it wasn’t raining on his many-thousand-dollar costume.

Babylon bead-throwers. I think somebody was flashing, because the guy in the middle is shaking his finger and going “no-no!”

The Chaos parade had more royalty, more horses, more bands, and funnier floats.

On Sunday, we wandered through the French Quarter. Bourbon Street was overflowing with people these guys could toss beads to, including plenty of flashers.

The biggest parade, on Sunday night, was led by Bacchus, also known as Elijah Wood or Frodo. He was having a total blast, like any 20-something kid, throwing beads and making eye contact with people.

As you can see from the hands, everyone in the crowd went crazy over the chance to get beads, cheap plastic cups, and the occasional stuffed toy or rubber chicken.

The Bacchagator was one of the crowd’s favorites. This was built on two flatbed trailers, so it was almost half a block long.

St. Augustine’s high school and their rival went head-to-head in a sort of “battle of the bands” on Canal Street. This student’s whole family went nuts, including his father and uncle, both alumni.

By 10:30, some of the junior high marchers were getting a little tired.

But we were still having a blast!

On the way home, we took in some lovely Mardi Gras decorations and stopped for a midnight chat with a New Orleans native. Stay tuned for more after Tuesday!

I write this sitting in the middle of an industrial wasteland. To my right is the boatyard, where workers and do-it-yourself owners spend their days grinding and sanding and fabricating things out of noxious materials. Our corner is quieter than most, since our closest neighbor, the classic Chris Craft Jerilane, just spends her days slowly rotting into oblivion.

To my left is water. About 75 feet away is the far shore, strewn with litter. Broken concrete, rotten pilings, and at least one sunken boat make it look forbidding to the casual observer.

But I am no longer a casual observer. I have spent hours sitting on deck or in the cockpit, and I have been rewarded.

I have become a birdwatcher.

At first, I spent my time looking across the larger waterway, towards the noisy gypsum factory. But my eye was caught by huge flocks of birds, moving northward in the evenings. Thousands of them would find a thermal, circle to gain altitude, then cruise across the sky to the next one. I couldn’t identify the birds, and I could only guess that they were returning to Lake Pontchartrain after a day of Gulf fishing. Once, when we went sailing, I saw even larger flocks over the lake, so vast that they stretched across a third of the horizon. I was hooked.

The next thing that piqued my curiosity was the meadow. On the other side of the water, above the debris, is a screen of wild bushes and grasses that have gained a toehold on the concrete. Just beyond is a large field, bordered by a tall fence, with wide locked gates and concrete driveways to nowhere. Near the water’s edge are bollards the size of my car, and there’s an electrical transformer, its wires clipped. An abandoned shipyard, perhaps?

But not abandoned at all! One day, a couple of songbirds came and perched on the wires and serenaded us as we worked on the boat. Chubby, with yellow tummies, their song sounded like “Sweetie, come here!” Once they had gotten my attention, I saw that they shared their human-free meadow and the abandoned building next door with swallows, crows, and other small songbirds. With my binoculars, I watch a group of them trying to land on a utility wire. At first, they all try to land on top of each other at one spot on the wire, before sorting themselves out and perching evenly spaced. But when it’s sorted out, they sometimes leave one odd guy a couple of yards away, as if he has BBO (bird body odor).

My favorite birds to watch are the water birds who fish here in our slip. There are pelicans, herons, ducks, and (I think) grebes. A cute little brown and green fellow comes to visit every day, sometimes catching minnows only a few feet from the boat. We call him, “the little green guy,” but he’s probably a green heron. Three or four ducks come by every evening, including one white one. Maybe he’s a domesticated duck who escaped and is now enjoying the free life! His quacking sounds so much like happy laughter, I laugh out loud when I hear him. The other day, I had the stereo on, and I heard him singing along with Joao Gilberto’s “O Pato” (“The Duck”).

Today, as I write this, I have seen and heard hundreds of birds. A flock of seagulls goes one way, and a flock of ibis goes the other. A pelican uses the wind to fly sideways to his chosen spot before gently drifting down for a landing, making hardly a ripple. He’ll certainly make a big enough splash the next time he catches a fish!

One tern goes by in each direction. Left tern and right tern? A songbird sings in the meadow, and further away, I hear jays and crows. Swallows flit by, their flight reminding me of a strobe light.

On the opposite shore, a long line of black ducks with white beaks paddles by. Each one pops his rear in the air for a while, resurfacing like a cork. I can’t hear them, but with binoculars, I can see their beaks moving and can imagine them quacking. A grebe goes the other way, his body cleverly hidden below the water. It seems like a major struggle when he decides to take off and fly away, and I can imagine him thinking, “Aw heck, is flying really worth the bother?”

I take out the binoculars to slowly scan the far shore and catch sight of one of our regular visitors: A black-crowned night heron. He sits on the rubble along the shore during the day, his beak down, snoozing, hardly moving except to preen. His black and white and gray feathers are elegant, and he seems proud of the long white crest feather on top of his head. Watching him, I am reminded that there is beauty in the most unexpected places. It is worth looking twice and never being “just a casual observer.”

On my first visit to Seabrook boatyard, I was overwhelmed by the number of huge sport fishing boats. They sprawled like white whales all over the boatyard, dwarfing 44-foot Cayenne. Over the months here, I’ve grown accustomed to — and bored by — them. My eye searches for the more interesting sailboat masts among their mile-high tuna towers.

But even the sailboats I see are not much like Cayenne. There seem to be two types: Local racers, and cruisers passing through. That lack of local cruisers was a big hint — one I overlooked.

A couple of weeks ago, after two exhilarating daysails, we took our first overnight sailing trip to Madisonville. We sailed across the lake under clear blue skies and then motored up the Tchefuncta river. Our mooring was in a pretty park, where live oaks draped with Spanish moss hung almost over our decks. A couple of lively pubs were right across the street. Even the noisy bridge traffic and four a.m. garbage trucks didn’t mar the novelty of spending the night someplace other than Seabrook.

A few weeks later, when all three of us had gotten snappish, it was time for another trip. But where? The Gulf is too far — we are 70 miles from the mouth of the river. Back to the Lake. Slidell, perhaps? Brian studied the chart, but there wasn’t enough detail. I found him staring intently at his computer, where he’d pulled up Microsoft Streets and Trips. It was easier to use than the pricey Softcharts he’d just bought, and at least it showed the pubs.

I read the Coast Pilot and didn’t find much except a dry listing of the shipyard facilities. That information was suspect, as we’d received a much more colorful description of the same shipyard via e-mail from our friend Steve in Seattle. He said it was, “…a truly pleasant place. The grass was roughly waist high, hiding the scraps of steel that threatened to turn your ankles, and the numerous poisonous rattle and water snakes. The water was medicinally sulphurous; I’m sure the odors killed any incipient cancers….If you do cruise the Bayou, watch your keel. The ecologically disposed cars and refrigerators will bang up more than the paint.”

We turned to the folks at West Marine for advice. “Where do folks go cruising around here?” we asked. “They don’t.” “Have you ever sailed to Slidell?” we asked. “No, why would you?”

It then dawned on us that there weren’t any other destinations, besides Madisonville, that met our three-part criteria for a perfect sailing destination: Electricity (for heat), scenery (no gypsum factories), and a pub. Madisonville had misled us, like the blind man feeling an elephant’s tail and saying, “An elephant is like a rope.”

Yesterday we went out on the lake and put about forty miles on the boat, a simple daysail across the lake and back. We got it out of our system, temporarily. But please, God, let us get out of Seabrook and someplace where there are pubs and scenery. As long as we head south, we can live without heat.