At 2pm on Decadence Sunday, Royal Street is a sea of glitter, wigs, booze, and smiles. It’s friendly, egalitarian, and very, very festive. No cover, no confines, the Decadence Parade is fun, fabulous (in the most Latinate sense of the word), and completely chaotic. There’s never a set parade route: it’s basically a big ol’ bar-hop led by the Grand Marshals that eventually finds its way to faggotini ground zero, the intersection of Bourbon Street and St. Ann. Of course, most folks–yours truly included–tend to veer off after half an hour or so and make their own parties, but it’s good for a while.
With less than two hours before the parade–which, despite universal drag logic, starts precisely on time every year–today’s skies are black, by all appearances ready to pour the equivalent of four Great Lakes on the French Quarter. Maybe Jonno and I should just cuddle up and skip the festivities this year.
Yeah, right.
Entering makeup mode…now.
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