Every Tuesday is a Fat Tuesday for me.
Leave it to a bunch of dirty swamp dwellers to bastardize a Catholic holiday. Mardi Gras is in full-swing across the nation and will be celebrated at the club this Saturday night. I was lucky enough to check out the full brass band practice on Wednesday and I think it is going to be amazing. I don’t know about you but a full horn section makes any song sound better. It’s the equivalent of adding a gospel choir behind you when you’re singing.
For my money, there is no better looking musician than a pudgy man playing the trombone. The trombone is one of those special instruments that just looks good in hands of a chubby guy. Sliding back and forth like a dogs tongue making that bufftt sound is awesome. My favorite is when they take a solo and point the slide to the heavens while shaking their amble midsection. Think about it. John Goodman looks he was born to play the trombone but if Gisele Bundchen picks one up you’d think she was holding it for Melissa McCarthy.
Think I’m wrong? Google “sexy trombone players” and be prepared to watch the internet crash.
Marti Gras makes me one-part nervous and one-part annoyed. I hate it when people shoot me a shocked glance when I tell them that I have never been to Bourbon Street to pound Hurricanes and show my moobs to people for beads. I’d like to think that I’ve led a rich and interesting life up to this point. Having not fought the crowds with a half-yard of strong, tall and fruity in my hand doesn’t make me less of a man, does it?
I am sure Marti Gras is a hoot when you’re 2-grams of coke, half a tab of LSD and saturated in Southern Comfort but I have reached this sweet spot in my life where I don’t want to be pressed like sardines in a can why completely shit-housed. I like being drunk on my couch instead of being drunk on a stranger’s cooch. I’ve seen videos of the parties at night with cops on horseback whacking party-goers with canes as people crawl on each other like ants exiting a mound while frat boys pound beer and each other throughout the night. If I want to be covered in urine, I might as well hang out with Samson.
I don’t get the flashing part either. Let me be absolutely clear: I like getting flashed but does anyone else think it’s a weird social contract to show your boobs for 3-cents worth of plastic? Also, how come this Indian trade didn’t work when I wasn’t seeing real life breasts? I would have loved to walked the campus of UNR with an armload of beads and gotten an eyeful between classes. If that was the case, I would have petitioned to put that in the recruitment pamphlet. Moreover, isn’t a woman sporting a neck-full of beads some sort of scarlet letter of being kinda whorish? If I had a daughter and she owned more than three sets of beads (yes, she needs to experiment and feel comfortable with her body but enough is enough) I might think she was pretty loose with the fellas.
Having only flown through Louisiana, my only real exposure to Mardi Gras is through the video camera of modern film master Snoop Doggy Dogg. I was given a Girls Gone Wild Doggy Style edition from a good friend…from Canada…you wouldn’t know him…don’t judge. The good people at GGW gave Snoop Dogg a couple of camcorders and a garbage bag full of marijuana and sent him to New Orleans to chronicle Mardi Gras. For the purpose of this column, I felt it was important for me to watch the video over and over again, rewinding particular scenes and making notes about Snoop’s adventure.
To the best of my knowledge, the 60-minute movie is nothing but confused white girls flashing Snoop as he drinks from a chalice filled with God-knows-what while smoking joints yelling “Girl’s gone wild, Snoop Dogg style.” It’s the Citizen Cane of girls flashing their titties. Armed with nothing but his gold records, millions of dollars, world-wide recognition and a winning smile, Snoop is able to convince the better part of the 504-area code to show him their boobs. Riveting stuff.
I don’t think I would have fared well in Snoops entourage during the filming of this movie. For starters, I probably would have gotten a contact high and OD’ed on catfish e’touffee. Unless there were a handful of beads in the bowl of jambalaya there’s no way I would have seen a single nipple. Second, I have been on record for a very long time that I do not drink anything out of a chalice. Feels very sacrilegious.
I like Salt Lake City because it isn’t New Orleans but I am excited for Saturday. Honestly, if Saturday’s band plays half as well as they did during practice on Wednesday I think we’ll be in for a Hell of a show. There won’t be any chicken jumbo in the building but there will be a metric ton of beads and that might led to people making bad decisions in the club.
It would be cool if those bad decisions come with a trombone solo.
Ben Raskin bartends at Keys On Main Wednesday through Saturday. Follow him on Twitter @BennyRaskin. Check out his podcast at Salt Lake City PubCast. He falls asleep to his Snoop Dogg video every night.