Thank you, and God bless you all!

Well, this is a difficult post to write. I'm so full of love for all of you right now, bursting with it, and have so many things that I want to say...but I'll try and make this brief.

5 years, 11 months, and 25 days ago I started a blog to have some fun, reach out to people and entertain myself. Along the way I landed a blogging gig with ChicagoNow, and even got on the radio a few times. It's been a blast, and I can't thank you guys enough for reading, commenting and re-tweeting over the years..

Lately, though, I've felt something missing in my life. I realized that too much of my time and energy was being spent in what was, ultimately, a rather shallow series of clown jokes, stories about weenie-wavers, and self-satisfied crowing about how much I ate and drank. I've also become less satisfied with my career as a law enforcement officer. For some time now I've spent hours thinking about how I could better live a life of service, compared to the well-paid and complacent civil servant's life I now lead.

I have wrestled with both demons and Lincoln's "better angels" of my nature. And I have made a decision. A trip down south affected me in a profound, and I hope lasting, way.

This is my last blog post.

I have taken a leave of absence from my job, pending my retirement. I have purchased a used Dodge minivan and converted it to a makeshift camper. I had hoped to buy a mobile home in which to travel the shining gospel way, but it didn't work out.

On Monday I will be driving south to New Orleans where I will be joining a recently-formed street ministry, the Good News Living Statue Ministry. I ran into some of these folks during a trip to New Orleans, as several of them acted out the Stations of the Cross around Jackson Square. As I stumbled out of a nearby daiquiri stand and crashed into one of the soldiers scourging the Christ, I felt a profound sense of disorientation and longing, and knew I'd been truly touched.

The GNLSM ministers mostly to gutter punks, street performers and tourists in the French Quarter. They do so mainly by acting out various Gospel passages while spray-painted gold or silver, in the manner of many New Orleans street performers. I was moved by the depth and intensity of their devotion to the Gospel, as well as to the art of living statue performance. They are truly Godly people, and other than a brief (but ugly) confrontation with a group of traveling Clowns for Christ, I have found them to be beyond reproach. I have signed on to act as a fry cook and go-fer for the troupe until I "learn the ropes" as a living statue and New Testament reenactor.

My beautiful wife and children, while not fully comprehending my decision, are nevertheless pretty much supportive of it. They will remain here performing earthly duties such as bill payment and home maintenance while I carry out God's work down south. They are my rock.

Please pray for me, as I will for all of you. God bless you all!

I love New Orleans

I just learned of another reason to love New Orleans:

San Fermin in Nueva Orleans, featuring an Encierro (bull run) this morning through the French Quarter. Instead of four-legged bulls chasing you through the streets, they have roller derby gals from the Big Easy Rollergirls wearing horns and smacking you on the ass with big plastic bats.

You can read more about the event in this story from the Times-Picayune.

Laissez les bon temps roulez!

Is this how the end begins?

I was sitting around the other night with MizBubs, talking about the state of the world, everything and nothing in particular. I told her something's been on my mind recently, and I can't shake it.

There have been at least 9 or 10 mass shootings in the news since March (hat tip to Jesus' General who has a summary of the incidents). Unlike the general, I don't blame guns--I believe there is a deeper sickness at work, and that's what brings me to my point.

What's been bothering me, and I'm reluctant to even say this out loud, is this nagging question:

What if this is how the beginning of the end looks? If we were, all of us, living in a horror film about some impending nightmarish apocalypse, are these shootings the random news items that would be playing in the background, the foreshadowing unnoticed by the main characters?

Think about the opening of the Dawn of the Dead remake, or the Larry Cohen film from the 70's, God Told Me To.



Should we be looking at these shootings as the first outbreaks of a contagion that is only going to spread and become worse?

So, I'm managing to tamp down my near-galloping paranoia this morning, and then Splotchy sends me this:

Metairie man says stranger chewed, swallowed after taking bite out of his arm

A news item about a possible zombie attack!

The alleged attacker, 48 year old Mario Vargas, is currently being held in the Jefferson Parish Correctional Center. I hope for their sake that they have Vargas isolated...as well as his victim.

CONSTANT VIGILANCE!

Naked Ladies on Bourbon Street

Let's talk about naked ladies. Well, naked from the waist up anyway. We saw quite a few of them in a pretty short amount of time. Three of the best sightings weren't even on Bourbon--they were on side streets in the French Quarter.

The first shot I got was right on Decatur Street at around 4 in the afternoon. Her husband seemed proud of her:



She was just standing there, whippin' em out apropos of nothing in particular.

The next few sightings came later in the night, around 9:45, on our way to dinner at Remoulade. We only spent about 15 minutes on Bourbon, tops, and that was while walking to and from Remoulade on Mardi Gras night. The crowds were overwhelming, and as the night went on they took on an increasingly drunk and volatile aspect. It was not pleasant, and I can't imagine why anyone spend all night on Bourbon Street as the focus of their Mardi Gras.

There were legions of single men armed with expensive cameras working the crowds like hawks. MizBubs has a sharp eye, and every once in a while she would call out "THERE'S ONE", but usually the flasher had disappeared back into the mob before I could get the shot. I learned to look for knots of people standing stationary in the swirling crowd--at the center of that knot would be a girl going wild. As often as not, the "girl" would turn out to be a middle-aged woman going wild and getting her freak on. Usually with the beaming approval of her husband or boyfriend.

I don't know if you can tell from these pictures, but there was a high ratio of men to women. MizBubs estimated it as possibly 10-1, and I guessed it at nearly that high. There were not many large groups of women, but there were plenty of groups of 5-10 men. Women who flashed and stood in one spot for more than a few seconds were quickly surrounded by dozens of men, some clicking pictures, some gawking, and some actively trying to grope the exposed woman. The scenes had a weird, almost predatory feel at times.

Check out these two girls, spotted by MizBubs:

This was taken a few seconds after the action stopped. There had been exposure, and much fondling of breasts, and French kissing involving the two girls and at least one random guy in the crowd. The voyeurs moved in and started groping, and the next shot I got was blondie breaking into a trot after pulling up her top:



A short distance away was an altogether happier scene involving a body-painted woman and her husband or boyfriend who stood close by arranging photo ops:



Nearby was this young woman, strolling through the crowd getting her drink on with her friend. She'd stop and pose occasionally, but was mostly oblivious to the attention. She never stopped moving long enough to get swarmed.

I thought the random souvenir thong worn outside the jeans was a classy touch.

Every once in a while smaller sections of the crowd would break out in an epidemic of flashing. As part of my ongoing studies (an offshoot of narcozoology) I have identified and named this phenomenon: I now declare that I am a leading authority on the contagion theory of flashing.

After dinner we crossed Bourbon Street and headed back toward Decatur. We met these sweet girls talking with a very drunk man in his 60's or 70's. They were strolling along, talking loudly, on a fairly deserted side street. There was a woman puking against the wall across the street while her girlfriend held her hair, and a couple of gangster looking thugs watching nearby. It did not seem like the safest spot in the world for a girl to walk around half naked. They suggested posing by the pole:

They told us where they got painted, but I can't remember where it was. The old man wandered off, and the girl across the street stopped puking. MizBubs chatted with them a bit and told them to be careful, and we all went our separate ways.

Around the corner we ran into this woman, whose husband hopped out of the way quickly when I asked if I could take a picture:



I can't remember if she was on Royal or Chartres. Just down the street from her we spotted the Titty Taxi (motto "You Show, We Go"). There were a few people around and I thought this might be a perfect spot to catch some exposure.

Unfortunately all the women there were either flirting or negotiating, and my short attention span prevented me from hanging around any longer.

We moved on and witnessed an epic domestic disturbance on the street. It began with a hot woman in a miniskirt getting out of the driver seat of a car and walking past us down Decatur. She slowed down enough to yell "F*CK YOU" over her shoulder. Immediately after that her screaming boyfriend got out of the passenger seat and followed her. I nudged MizBubs back into a doorway as they passed; traffic backed up behind their abandoned auto, horns blaring. A few moments later they trudged back up the street, got back into the car and drove off, still screaming at each other but at least able to drive off together.

We had a drink in a shady little joint on Decatur where something was definitely up. We didn't stick around long enough to figure out what it was. We left there and ended the night at the casino, where the fine waitresses were happy to provide us both with free bourbon as long as MizBubs continued to work the $20 that she had fed into a penny video slot.

The Titty Taxi was nowhere in sight, and we walked back to our hotel, untroubled by domestic disturbances, traffic obstructions or naked ladies.

Bustin a gut in New Orleans

You know the saddest sight in New Orleans? Anyone carrying a bag of McDonalds, that's what.

Here's a grab bag of some more food and drink experiences from Mardi Gras. We were pleased at how good everything was. We did not have a single bad meal while we were there, and prices at the nicest places we dined were a far better value than similar restaurants in Chicago.

We made two visits to the Acme Oyster House, which I'm happy to report was even better than I remembered it.



It's a nice surprise when a place specializing in fried seafood goes to the trouble of creating distinct types of breading for all their fried items. The fried oysters, catfish and crawfish tails were all noticeably different in texture. And just in case you think your hush puppies could use a little extra fat, they thoughtfully include a couple pats of butter:

Here's something that turns up on a lot of New Orleans menus, but that we hadn't tried before. Oysters Rockerfeller soup:



We are now ready to declare that the Carousel Bar at the Hotel Monteleone serves the best Sazerac we have tried:

Cafe DuMonde continues to be a perfect stop for a non-alcoholic pick-me-up. Don't get the large cafe au lait, because they serve that in styrofoam cups now and it takes away some of the perfection. Get a small cafe au lait and an order of beignets for less than $5.00:



Don't step on a pigeon while you're walking to your table.

Coop's Place has the best jambalaya of any restaurant in New Orleans. It has sausage and rabbit meat, and you can get the "supreme" version which includes a bunch of seafood. I got a small serving at lunch with some salad (they make their own Green Goddess dressing), and MizBubs got a smoked duck quesadilla:



We sat next to two cute French girls who were busy studying their guide book, and a mellow cat who kept watch in the front window:

Coop's has an ample supply of Abita Turbo Dog beer, which is an awesome value for $3.50 a bottle, and they also make a phenomenal Bloody Mary. MizBubs needed her vitamins so she didn't wait for me to take a picture of her cocktail:



The very best meal we had on this trip was at Luke. We had a late lunch there on Mardi Gras, and it was amazing. Wonderful service, delicious food, an open floor plan that was buzzing but not too noisy. It was the best combination of food, atmosphere and service we found on this trip, and I really can't say enough about the place.

We ended up having appetizers and dessert because by the time we finished the appetizers (and a few of their specialty house beers) we couldn't handle entrees. First there was Badischer Presskopf. I've never eaten head cheese before, and wanted to expand my horizons. This was one of the most delicious flavors I've ever had. It was served with a series of pickles on the side that served as a perfect counterpoint:

You can see the raw oysters there in the background. They were the best oysters we had on this trip. Luke has a good raw bar, and from where we sat we could see tray after tray of "Plateau de Fruits de Mer" going out to the tables--silver platters bearing mounds of ice laden with all manner of shellfish, crab legs and shrimp tails erupting from the tops.

The waiter recommended following cold appetizers up with something hot. He suggested something called Flammenkuche, which turned out to be an Alsatian pizza. It also turned out to be possibly the most perfect single combination of flavors and textures I had on this trip. We've been scouring the interwebs since we got home, trying to find a recipe that might approximate this.

Picture a small pizza, but with an insanely buttery, flaky crust more like a pate brisee than a typical pizza dough. Then there was a white sauce, then thinly sliced onion and Emmenthaler cheese and chunks of the best bacon I've ever eaten:

This did us in. The bacon was from a fellow named Alan Benton, and I can tell you he'll be getting some of our mail order business soon enough. I can taste it and feel the texture of the butter on my lips as I type this, it's that good.

We were stuffed, sure, but we still had dessert. I departed from my usual New Orleans ritual of trying every restaurant's bread pudding, and we had profiteroles with strawberry ice cream and creme anglaise.

We are happy to report that the Napoleon House is staying open later again--they had been closing at 5 or 6 since Katrina--and while Girod's still has not opened they have expanded their cafe menu.

There is one bartender there, I can't remember his name, who makes a fantastic Sazerac. He does this little flourish with the glass as he swirls the Herbsaint, and then flicks his wrist to toss away the excess when he finishes. He was not there on our most recent visit, and I think his absence might explain why the Napoleon House Sazerac has now fallen to second place. It's still a superior cocktail, though:



The meal we were most looking forward to on this vacation was at Cochon. The owner, Chef Donald Link, was named best chef in the south by the James Beard Foundation in 2007, and Cochon was nominated for best new restaurant. We first heard about this place after seeing Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations episode in New Orleans. The place gets rave reviews on Yelp and Trip Advisor. I mean, come on--the restaurant is dedicated to pork, and bears the French name for "pig". Surely we would love this place, no?

Well...no. Not exactly. Maybe they were having an off night--we did visit on the day after Mardi Gras, after all, and maybe the staff wasn't quite feeling their best. Maybe our expectations were too high after reading all the accolades. Who knows...

The place smelled perfect as we walked in. The greeter was lovely, and we were seated right away, and we ordered drinks. Some time after getting my bourbon flight (a sampler of three different bourbons) things just kind of went slightly off the tracks.

We were seated next to two women who had kind of a snooty vibe. One seemed almost haughty, and her dining companion was deferential to her to the point of being obsequious. They were dressed well but not too expensively. There was no obvious bling, or high end purses or expensive shoes. It didn't seem as if they had a reason to feel any better than anyone else in the place. The two had a look that some women begin to carry in adolescence--that of someone who always seems like she smells something bad.

Within a couple minutes a server (not ours) delivered two appetizers to our table. We paused for a moment, uncomprehending, and then told the server it was not our order.

"That's ours" said bitchface next us, and with great clattering of dinnerware the server lifted the items from our table and deposited them in their rightful spot, awkwardly reaching over my bride to do so.

The bourbon flight was excellent. The three bourbons were Sam Houston, Buffalo Trace (now our house bourbon, having replaced Wild Turkey) and a new favorite, Jefferson's Reserve. Wow.

Our appetizer arrived, a slice of andouille sweet potato pie with apples and green slaw. Meh. We were surprised that it didn't make more of an impression on us. I'm sure that in texture and flavor they were going for subtle, but it passed subtle into bland. The slaw didn't even register in flavor or texture.

A few minutes into the meal I looked over at the women seated next to us. They were preparing to leave, having finished less than half of their two appetizers, and with wine still left in their glasses. Neither of them looked like the kind of social x-rays who don't eat full meals. It didn't seem like they'd argued, or been called away by an emergency. I got the impression they felt we had somehow soiled their food by having been uncouth enough to allow a server to set it on our table, however briefly. When they left I told MizBubs I kind of regretted not snatching a quick bite out of their appetizers as soon as the server set them down, or at least sneezing over the plates.

Dinner began to arrive, and a pattern emerged. We'd be left alone for a while, longer than we'd like, and when servers would appear they seemed almost clumsy. A number of times we'd hear a fairly abrupt "excuse me" and have to move out of the way of the servers. It was the first time I've ever experienced service that managed to be, simultaneously, both indifferent and obtrusive.

MizBubs had paneed pork cheeks with goat cheese arugula & beet rösti, and pork and black-eyed pea gumbo with greens. They were both good, but not impressively so. The gumbo was overwhelmed by black pepper to the exclusion of other flavors.



I did well. I had an amazingly perfect item--an oyster and bacon sandwich. The bacon was wonderful, the oysters delicate and flavorful. The slaw that accompanied it was just right, and the sauce on the sandwich...well, I wish I'd paid closer attention to the finer points of the sandwich, but I ate it too fast.



The best part of the meal was dessert. While the dinner items were all good, except for my sandwich nothing jumped out at you. The desserts, on the other hand, were delicious and inspired. We had a cornmeal pineapple upside-down cake with coconut lime sorbet and dulce de leche, and a flourless chocolate cake with cream cheese mousse and pears.

Sadly, the evening ended on another off note. Of the two toilets in the men's bathroom, one of them was badly stopped up, literally full to the rim, and on the verge of spilling over. By the look of it, it had been that way for a while and no one appeared to be doing anything about it. A raunchy toilet can be an entertaining part of the atmosphere in a dive bar, but it's not what you want to encounter in a nice restaurant.

We left Cochon and both felt out-of-sorts. It was not a bad meal by any means, but there was just something about the place that fell really short of expectations.

_____________________

In 2004, while training for a marathon and running every day (including a 10 mile run in 90 degree heat) I still managed to gain 8 pounds in 3 days. Not so, this time. I managed to avoid the weight gain I usually experience on trips to New Orleans. We walked, a lot, and drank a lot of water too.

The trip has left me even more obsessed with food than usual. I made a creme anglaise for the first time yesterday, and it came out well. Our search for the right Flammenkuche recipe continues. I found out that the Carousel Bar is the birthplace of two cocktails, neither of which I've ever tried, so that's on the horizon too.

For now, though, even with all this thought of food and excess, I'm living a pretty sober life. I weigh less than I did last year, the foot pain is gone, and I'm getting ready to run some half marathons this summer. Camping season is right around the corner, work is busy but not driving me crazy...it's all (keep your fingers crossed) good.

It looks like maybe Mardi Gras did the trick, and ended up clearing my body,mind and soul to face the challenges and joys ahead.

Here's to a new week. Hope your weekend was good, and that your coming week will be healthy, productive and fun.

See you later, alligators.

T'Aint for Splotchy

I got something for Splotchy.

No, it's not the Green Monkey Music Project mix I've been promising him for the past two weeks.

It's some taint.

For whatever reason, Splotchy loves him some taint.

This has resulted in taint wars with fellow bloggers and inappropriate suggestions for drink names (the "Sweaty Taint").

We were taking a break inside a new favorite dive bar, Aunt Tiki's on Decatur Street. It's a friendly place full of friendly people, and appropriately enough Splotchy has actually been there before--we stopped in there when we were working in St. Bernard Parish back in 2006. Cool jukebox. Good people.

So, MizBubs and I were sitting there enjoying a cold, refreshing Abita beer and taking in the flotsam behind the bar:



Off in the corner I noticed a small dry erase board covered in writing. I had discovered Aunt Tiki's "T'Aint Board", a handy guide to saying "taint" in a variety of foreign languages. The bartender helpfully brought it over to MizBubs so I could get a better picture of it:

I hope Splotchy (and Jess Wundrun) swear to only use this information for good.








DISCLAIMER: The foreign language taint translations described herein are provided on an “as is” basis, without warranty of any kind, to the fullest extent permitted by law. Sprawling Ramshackle Compound does not warrant or guarantee the individual success speakers or writers may have in implementing the translations in conversations private or public, or in their own blogs, websites, or social networking applications including, but not limited to, Facebook, MySpace, Twitter or Ning.

Sprawling Ramshackle Compound does not warrant, guarantee or make any representations regarding the use, results of use, accuracy, timeliness or completeness of any data or information relating to the translations pictured above. Sprawling Ramshackle Compound disclaims all warranties, express or implied, and in particular, disclaims all warranties of merchantability, fitness for a particular purpose, and warranties related to the foreign language translations of "taint", or any service or use related thereto.

Sprawling Ramshackle Compound shall not be liable for any direct, indirect or consequential damages or costs of any type arising out of any action taken by you or others related to the foreign language translations of "taint".

Big Daddy legs for Lisa

For Lisa of That's Why, who asked in an earlier comment:

Show me the swinging legs from Big Daddies and I might just fall over from the excitement.

Lisa, I'm sorry to say I've fallen short.

We strolled by Big Daddy's twice, and noticed two things. First, the swinging legs were not on display. The spot where the legs used to swing out was covered over with a heavy board. MizBubs posited that they had taken the legs inside for the holiday to prevent any Bourbon Street drunks from attempting to swing on them.

Second, Big Daddy's had changed signs.

When we visited last year, this was the sign we saw:

If you look closely you'll see what Big Daddy's promises to the enthusiast: "Bottomless...Topless...Moderate Prices".

On this visit we saw a different sign, and while not as specific in its offer of moderately-priced pleasure, it's still a winner. This sign promises "World Famous Love Acts Men & Women".



To paraphrase Dashiell Hammett, I was trying to count how many lies could be found in those six words, and had reached three...

I looked at this sign, and observed telltale black boxes over certain parts of the talent depicted on the sign. You see those?

At that moment I suddenly realized where our old neighbors, the ones with the Polaroids, had landed after fleeing suburban Chicago so quickly.

We did not go inside.

A little music...

Here's Jackson Square being put to an altogether better use.

This is some video of a brass band that was playing in Jackson Square outside the Cabildo on Thursday, February 26. Check out the adorable woman who jumps in from the left side of the frame at around 1:14.



This is a short clip of a really neat jazz ensemble called Loose Marbles. There are about 15 of them, and they play in different combinations around the French Quarter to maximize their tips. I wish I had gotten more of them. I did get a CD of theirs, which is wonderful and old-timey. Here's a little taste to get the weekend started:

Ash Wednesday

witness

intransitive verb

1: to bear witness : testify
2: to bear witness to one's religious convictions witness for Christ — Billy Graham>

_____________________

Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of the season of Lent, a time of repentance leading to Easter. A lot of us associate Lent with the idea of giving something up, of sacrificing something. Typically things like booze, chocolate, gambling, porn...you get the idea. Growing up I never had much of an understanding of its meaning beyond that most basic idea of sacrificing something you enjoyed. From what I've read recently, I have a better understanding (I think) of Lent as a time not only of sacrifice, but of a greater commitment to prayer and good works. A time of preparing and trying to make myself more open to receive God’s love.

Please forgive my poor attempts to talk about theology here. I really don't have the knowledge or language for it. As I mention occasionally, I have struggled for years with my faith, my lack of faith, and my relationship with God. I just wanted to set the stage for what I wanted to talk about.

Ash Wednesday this year found us in New Orleans, and we ended up spending much of the day talking about faith and religious observation. We received our ashes in a Catholic church for the first time in years. The church we wandered into was Immaculate Conception on Baronne Street. We read the message from the pastor and were impressed in that it stressed doing something positive for Lent instead of just giving up something. In other words, I shouldn't just give up bourbon for the next 40 days--I need to take that booze money and donate it to a worthy cause. Stuff like that.

Now here's what struck both of us. The Gospel reading was from Matthew, Chapter 6:

1

¹ "(But) take care not to perform righteous deeds in order that people may see them; otherwise, you will have no recompense from your heavenly Father.

2

When you give alms, do not blow a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites ² do in the synagogues and in the streets to win the praise of others. Amen, I say to you, they have received their reward.

3

But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right is doing,

4

so that your almsgiving may be secret. And your Father who sees in secret will repay you.

5

"When you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, who love to stand and pray in the synagogues and on street corners so that others may see them. Amen, I say to you, they have received their reward.

6

But when you pray, go to your inner room, close the door, and pray to your Father in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will repay you.

_____________________

I italicized a couple of those lines for a reason.

We were not prepared on Mardi Gras for the large numbers of self-identified Christians who flooded the French Quarter. When I say self-identified I don't mean that I could tell they were Christians by their conduct, good works or preaching. I mean self-identified because they wore matching tee shirts with "JESUS" emblazoned on them, or crosses, or words like "FEAR GOD HATE SIN"...or I recognized them once I got close enough to hear them screaming. Not preaching, screaming.

I turned to MizBubs at one point and asked her what kind of faith could drive someone to this kind of behavior? We saw several different groups. The largest group was in Jackson Square, decked out in matching blue tee shirts:



They had a band set up on the steps of the Presbytere that was playing some moderately upbeat contemporary worship music. They were not yelling at anyone. We paused to check them out and MizBubs asked me what I noticed. I was stumped.

"They're all men. There's not a single woman with them."

Now, to their credit, I didn't see them confronting people on Bourbon Street or getting in anyone's face. I think that maybe what they were doing was bearing some type of relatively quiet witness to the debauchery going on everywhere else in the French Quarter that night.

The next group we saw was right in the middle of the crowd on Bourbon Street:

Obviously they had to work harder to get noticed, what with nearly everyone around them being drunk or obsessed with catching a glimpse of some naked lady breasts or both. In addition to displaying a big "TRUST JESUS" sign and a helpful list of sins for which we'll be judged, they were engaging in a fair amount of screaming.

Angry, veins-throbbing-in-the-neck screaming. Like the group in Jackson Square, it was an all-male revue. Maybe they felt that they could not expose their women folk to this volume of sin. Because of where they were, they were a magnet for every loudmouth drunk and party girl who felt like taunting them. It was a strange spectacle.

Now let's assume that these are genuine people of faith, and not merely people seeking attention, or appearing in public for their own aggrandizement. Maybe back home they lead everyday lives full of quiet prayer, modesty and works of charity. What would make them think that they were doing anything Godly by planting themselves right in the middle of Bourbon street and becoming part of the freakshow? By wading in there with those crazy signs they just became one more part of the carnival sideshow. Did they, on some level, savor the abuse they got from passersby, and feel like they were suffering for the Lord? Did they believe they were fighting the good fight and bearing witness? I don't know.

MizBubs mentioned that she thought a few of them might be making extensive use of the in-room porn at their motel rooms later that night, or otherwise pleasuring themselves to their adrenaline-charged Bourbon Street memories...

_____________________

I saved the worst for last.

On Ash Wednesday we strolled over to Jackson Square and got there just as the noon mass was letting out. There were hundreds of people coming out of church, and the priests were standing outside greeting the parishioners as they left. There were the usual crowds of people in Jackson Square, the fun mix of tourists, fortune tellers, artists and gutter punks all milling around.

Then we heard the screaming, and noticed the police cars.

A small group of zealots were taking turns screaming at the people leaving the cathedral. They were all wearing shirts that identified them as "Christians" (I should probably use the Coaster Punchman "Kristians" to describe these wackadoos). The first one I noticed was their videographer--yes, they had a video guy saving the memories--because at first I thought his tee shirt said "I AM A HOLY ROYAL PEST".



There was also a "REPENT OR PERISH" shirt on one of the worst screamers. The invective pouring from his lips was horrifying to witness.

It was then that we noticed something truly moving. As the different screamers would take their turn, a different parishioner would calmly step in front of them, placing themselves between the spitting rage of the bible thumper and the people leaving the church. They would stand there, silently, and absorb all that hate.





I wish I had known how to work the video function on our camera better, but that was what I got.

So, in terms of bearing witness, whose faith is deeper and more righteous? I'll go with the average Joe or Jane who takes it on him or herself to stand humbly in the face of rage directed at their church.

I know I'm not a good Christian. Anyone who's ever visited this blog knows I am a sinner, and I know I am as well. I understand that to many people of faith, things I find entertaining might be considered worldly at best, and deeply sinful at worst. I can understand being called by your faith to protest an injustice or evil. I can see that something like Mardi Gras, or the whole French Quarter for that matter, might be seen as a perfect emblem of sin, full of drunks and degenerates. I don't agree with it, but I understand it.

Here's my point.

What happened to the idea of letting people know you are Christian by your humility, by your kindness, by your treatment of others? After seeing all the proclamations of faith in the form of signs and tee shirts and yelling through megaphones, I ask myself: how is this behavior in line with what is asked of us in Matthew?

For all those dozens of men out on Bourbon Street waving signs and yelling, there were dozens of lost souls puking in doorways and passing out. There were young men and women crying by themselves after being abandoned by the friends they arrived with. For the biggest party in America, there were a lot of very sad and lonely-looking people on the fringes of that crowd. I'm sure they could have been ministered to--if that was ever the intent of all those tee shirt wearing, sign waving men.

I'm just saying.