Posts Tagged ‘2010’

Last year I missed this event, and honestly, I would have again this year if not for a friend who was dead set on going. So down to the French Quarter we went, along with 5,000 people who’d gotten up before 7 on a sweltering July Saturday for the privilege of being beaten on by plastic bat wielding roller derby girls.

Clearly, the New Orleans participants have rather different concerns than their brethren in Pamplona. While a cocktail might not be the wisest choice before having to zigzag in front of a ton of hurtling bovine, the runners here weren’t so concerned about sobriety. Nearby bars were doing a brisk business in sangria, bloody marys and beer while the Rolling Elvi and lovely girls in bull helmets were arriving on the scene. A big blue bull mascot was doing a rather…uh…interesting dance that highlighted his uncastrated state.

I happened to catch the eye of a woman in running attire. Clearly a tourist and not used to such things at such hours, she’d pulled up short and was walking cautiously up to the crowd, so I smiled and waved her over to join everyone, but she stayed back on the sidewalk, beckoning me over instead. I’m not sure why I thought an explanation would convince her we weren’t nuts, but I did my best. She took the information in, considering.

“You know,” she said after a long, thoughtful pause, “we couldn’t do this in New York. Too aggressive. Someone would bring a real bat, the runners would fight back. People would get hurt for real.” She looked at the size of the crowd and the few cops scattered around. “You really don’t think that’ll happen here?”

I laughed. “No way, and besides- these are roller derby girls! They can kick the asses of pretty much anybody here.” She didn’t quite seem to know how to take that, so I added, “It’s too mellow, everybody’s just out for a good time, no worries.”

“You know, you people should be the longest lived people on the planet. You know how to have a good time, everybody’s relaxed, friendly. It’s not the same rat race, and it it’s not like it is at home- nobody’s asked me what I do, nobody seems to much care how much I make.” She continued surveying the crowd carefully. “There are all kinds of people here and they’re just having fun- it’s all that stuff the doctors tell you to do, stop and smell the roses, all that.”

A group of men dragged their wagon past us, a huge cooler barely wedged inside. A random Elvi sauntered up to them, had a beer planted in his hand and, raising a toast to the donation, he wandered back to his scooter.

“Yeah,” she said. “If you’d all just take it easy on the drink and the fried food, you people would live forever.”

Somebody fell into the cop at the corner, and he took it in stride. They took a picture with him, and life went on. “You have some great policemen here,” she said.

That one made my eyebrows go up- it’s not a phrase one often hears here(shirt on Bourbon St reads: “NOPD: Not Our Problem, Dude.”), and coming from a middle aged black lady it seemed somewhat surreal, but she was completely sincere.

“Very good with people,” she said, nodding. “I’ve been watching them dealing with drunken idiots, and I don’t know how they do it. They’re always in control, friendly, personable. I’ve been amazed.”

“Um, yeah. They have a lot of practice, I guess- we have a lot of festivals and parades, so they really are the best at crowd control. Absolutely.”

By then things were ready to get underway and my new friend scooted out of the way and onto a sidestreet. The “bulls” were getting their instructions- runners would be sent out in a steady stream and every 45 seconds or so an airhorn would blow, signalling the release of a half dozen bulls.

And so it was:

It was hysterical- when the airhorn blasted, everybody but everybody screamed like crazy- and the people were really running… like, RUNNING running.

Running with go cups, true, but hey. Sure, maybe we could be the longest lived people on Earth, but if you take away our food and our drink, maybe you take away the magic.

In the end, maybe it’s best not to tamper with the delicate formula, and just let New Orleans be New Orleans.

More Hermes photos here.

So it’s November again, and one of the reasons I pushed so hard to get everything wrapped up with the business within a week was to clear the decks and be ready for National Novel Writing Month. I have an interesting concept (I hope), and although my house is still a disaster, I was ready to go.

And I started off really well, and even getting a little ahead of schedule. But a bad day threw me off and now, sadly, I’ve ‘earned’ my first NaNo badge:

I made a donation to the Office of Letters and Light and bought a package of these buttons that you get to wear after achieving some dubious milestones, many of which are either tongue in cheek or just too funny.

“Procrastination” is for missing 3 days running and being bad, bad, bad. The graphic shows a vaccuum because when housework looks better than writing, you know you’re in trouble.

I should have been writing all weekend- that was the plan, but it hasn’t worked out that way. Tonight, after the end of the Saint’s game (which isn’t going so well at the moment Edit: 8-0, baby! Comeback kids!), I may have to earn another badge as I start to catch up:

I think that one’s self-explanatory.