To each according to their beads...what's the value of a plastic throw?
Out One Day: Tree-beads hold their value
by Todd Perley
An occasional column of real life stories from New Orleans.
I am forever weirded out by the rest of the country and world when Carnival rolls here. It is a magical time, in that we become completely insular and self-obsessed. There is nothing outside of Mardi Gras, and turning on a TV, reading a newspaper, or calling or reading friends' posts from other cities, states and countries makes ya feel like you're a ghost. We can see them, hear them, read about the recession, find out who won best actor, get the scoop on the latest gossip, but no one acknowledges that we exist, and in such a heady state of frenzied bliss (for the most part)!
I missed Mardi Gras one year, in 1999, when I had moved briefly to Philly. As I couldn't buy one in PA, I baked (!!!) a king cake and brought beads in to work to throw around. Why was I at an office job on Mardi Gras day? Who the hell works on Fat Tuesday unless you're a bartender, cook, waiter or cop? People looked at me like I was insane. "What's going on today? Why are you throwing beads at me in the hallway? Is it a holiday somewhere? What does this signify?" (Me, ghost. Pounding at the membrane of reality. "HELLEWWW! CAN YOU HEAR ME? SEE ME?")
This ain't no mindless party, y'all. Well, not for the locals. The Girls-Gone-Mild and Frat-in-the-Hats from Ohio are content to vomit their weight in whiskey every night, but for us, it's something slightly different. It is a time both of purging and acquisition. Of shedding a year of hardships that are particular to our location. It is also a time to grab on to the future — to dare to think things might be looking up, and plan what you can do to ensure they are. Grab and harvest like — well, like so many plastic beads flying at your face as you scream and laugh, duck and weave.
My old neighbor was the editor of the financial section of the Times-Pic newspaper. He told me of an article he wanted to write or assign to his writers — the fiscal life journey of a Mardi Gras bead, tracking its value, both real and perceived, from its cost of raw materials being manufactured, to wholesale sold to dealers, to retail sold to krewe members, to its value as it is actually flying through the air (my neighbor posited that it is at its investment peak in that brief moment), to its value at being caught versus landing in a tree branch versus landing in the street, etc. ("Ground scores don't count," has always been my mantra.)
And then there's afterwards, the value as you sit on your friend's parlor floor, poring over your scores and comparing throws. Or even later, as it sits in a plastic Schwegmann's grocery bag in your attic, as spring arrives. The only non-value moment a bead can experience is when it lands broken in the street. Perhaps that's why I pick them up and hurl them into trees. Tree-beads hold their value.
I don't know if he ever wrote that article, but every time I see a strand of beads flying at me, I'm always thinking, "You're at your most valuable, useful moment in your life, my little sparkly friends."
Perhaps that's what Mardi Gras is. The moment when we shine the most. A brief moment, flying through crisp night air amidst frenzied screams of delight, trumpets, and the percussion of the ubiquitous marching bands between songs — rrrat-tat, a-tat-tat.
More by Todd: No Rain Probably Helps
You can support Todd's writing and other artistic projects at his Patreon
You can read the entirety of Todd's book, 'Hurricane Ida and the Aftermath'. Click here for a link to the paperback version.
Back to Stories
by Todd Perley
An occasional column of real life stories from New Orleans.
I am forever weirded out by the rest of the country and world when Carnival rolls here. It is a magical time, in that we become completely insular and self-obsessed. There is nothing outside of Mardi Gras, and turning on a TV, reading a newspaper, or calling or reading friends' posts from other cities, states and countries makes ya feel like you're a ghost. We can see them, hear them, read about the recession, find out who won best actor, get the scoop on the latest gossip, but no one acknowledges that we exist, and in such a heady state of frenzied bliss (for the most part)!
I missed Mardi Gras one year, in 1999, when I had moved briefly to Philly. As I couldn't buy one in PA, I baked (!!!) a king cake and brought beads in to work to throw around. Why was I at an office job on Mardi Gras day? Who the hell works on Fat Tuesday unless you're a bartender, cook, waiter or cop? People looked at me like I was insane. "What's going on today? Why are you throwing beads at me in the hallway? Is it a holiday somewhere? What does this signify?" (Me, ghost. Pounding at the membrane of reality. "HELLEWWW! CAN YOU HEAR ME? SEE ME?")
This ain't no mindless party, y'all. Well, not for the locals. The Girls-Gone-Mild and Frat-in-the-Hats from Ohio are content to vomit their weight in whiskey every night, but for us, it's something slightly different. It is a time both of purging and acquisition. Of shedding a year of hardships that are particular to our location. It is also a time to grab on to the future — to dare to think things might be looking up, and plan what you can do to ensure they are. Grab and harvest like — well, like so many plastic beads flying at your face as you scream and laugh, duck and weave.
My old neighbor was the editor of the financial section of the Times-Pic newspaper. He told me of an article he wanted to write or assign to his writers — the fiscal life journey of a Mardi Gras bead, tracking its value, both real and perceived, from its cost of raw materials being manufactured, to wholesale sold to dealers, to retail sold to krewe members, to its value as it is actually flying through the air (my neighbor posited that it is at its investment peak in that brief moment), to its value at being caught versus landing in a tree branch versus landing in the street, etc. ("Ground scores don't count," has always been my mantra.)
And then there's afterwards, the value as you sit on your friend's parlor floor, poring over your scores and comparing throws. Or even later, as it sits in a plastic Schwegmann's grocery bag in your attic, as spring arrives. The only non-value moment a bead can experience is when it lands broken in the street. Perhaps that's why I pick them up and hurl them into trees. Tree-beads hold their value.
I don't know if he ever wrote that article, but every time I see a strand of beads flying at me, I'm always thinking, "You're at your most valuable, useful moment in your life, my little sparkly friends."
Perhaps that's what Mardi Gras is. The moment when we shine the most. A brief moment, flying through crisp night air amidst frenzied screams of delight, trumpets, and the percussion of the ubiquitous marching bands between songs — rrrat-tat, a-tat-tat.
More by Todd: No Rain Probably Helps
You can support Todd's writing and other artistic projects at his Patreon
You can read the entirety of Todd's book, 'Hurricane Ida and the Aftermath'. Click here for a link to the paperback version.
Back to Stories