Goo Goo Ga Ga - Carnavale, Austin Style

Now, first things first... I gotta give big props to a religion that says, "For the next few days, culminating at midnight on Fat Tuesday, you have our blessing to go hog fucking, bark at the moon wild! Verily I say unto you, get naked! Dance! Shimmy! Shake! Hunch! Grind! Drink! Eat! Drink more! And more! Let all dangle over the thin edge of the moral wedge!! Un nomini patri." I mean, how bad can a religion be which once a year allows its followers to come totally unhinged and debauch in the streets for all the world to see, and be completely forgiven, blessed with total absolution come Wednesday? Well, that’s another story altogether -I don’t dare open that alter boy can- but still, they at least allow their followers to release a whole bunch of pent up steam while enduring the rest of the year under the frocked papal thumb of guilt. Knowing how hard line many religions are, I say big time props go to the clerical powers that be who benevolently sponsor this holiday.
An age-old wisdom must’ve prevailed at the core of Carnavale’s origins. I can hear it now, the church elders agreeing, "Awww... shit... for once, let those poor bastards have cake... and pie, too!"
And from what I’ve seen in the past, having survived a few Mardis Gras’ myself, watched scads of newsreels over the years of Carnavale exploding in the streets of the mother country, Brazil, it would appear that parishioners and seculars alike rather look forward to this once a year occasion to allow their true ids to surface. With unchecked abandon they unscrew that tightly wound lid of their inflamed emotions and carnal desires and for a few days it’s Pandora’s box all over again -flying monkeys, caterwauling pigs, rum running dogs- but that’s the fun of it! And no one gives a good hot damn! I say, God bless ‘em! Les bon ton rouliers!! Repent when the dust settles and the ash is ceremoniously smudged on your forehead. Until then, dive in head hands and feet and get you some! Wallow all up in it! Root hog, root!
Throughout the year, the Austin experience is filled with celebrations of all type which ultimately make life here eminently more enriching and gratifying. But to allow this type of raucous celebration to take place within city limits, many many miles away from the polytheistic epicenter, shows just how too cool for school this town really is. During the course of the evening I suffered more than one sustained giggle watching slightly uncomfortable, pistol packin’ police officers trying their best to turn a blind yet bemused eye as exposed tetas and bombeezy booties throbbed and bobbed to the bewildering beat right under their very noses; and on more than one occasion, enduring arms slung around their uniformed waists, their epauletted shoulders, the party goers draped blissfully around their torsos while a barrage of flashbulbs shattered the intimacy to capture the surreal moment for posterity’s sake. Any other time of the year and these people would be arrested on the spot, don’t pass "Go", don’t get two hundred dollars neither! So, big props to the city of Austin for allowing its faithful denizens to unleash as is their want on this very special holiday. Viva libertad!
Realizing what I was about to get into, I took a page out of my "been there done that" book and snagged a cab to the Palmer Center to join in the festivities. In hindsight, intelligent move.
When I got out of my cab, the first thing I noticed was the tremendous rumble which emanated from the big upturned soup bowl that is The Palmer Center. The walls were heaving. The ground was quaking.
I was met outside the auditorium, on the sidewalk that rings the perimeter, by my trustworthy benefactor, Russ, editor of Austin Daze, where he’d been patiently awaiting my arrival, loyal chap that he is. After brief salutations and hosanna heys we strolled toward the vortex of activity while tired, scantily clad revelers filtered past us; decorated, festooned in every possible manner of outlandish mask, bead, bauble, sequin and feather, their candles temporarily spent, desperately seeking fresh air, needing a momentary break from the combustion manifesting inside.
As the doors swung open I was immediately seduced by a pounding incessant jungle rhythm which didn’t leave a single square inch of my body untouched; my feet twitching in time, my butt cheeks squeezing hard enough to crack a pecan, toes gnarled, knees waggling, arms pumping, tongue lolling, nostrils flaring, cross-eyed and soon-to-be painless, my body’s response to the tribal beats which assaulted my every sensory perception. There wasn’t any escape, nor did I want any! Bombarded and bamboozled says it best... The next thing I noticed -after almost suffering a potentially embarrassing pratfall- was a very slick concrete floor slathered in precious bodily secretions mixed with various spilled libations, creating a murky swamp on the coliseum floor, a virtual breeding ground for new microbial growth as well as fancy foot action. And the thought hit me then that for once, tonight, on this floor, white people could actually become a shadow of James Brown if only for a second, and they too, could be doin’ their thang like a sex machine! That in itself was glorious and sublime. When it comes to dancin’ white folks need all the help they can get. But I digress... Russ and I entered the inner sanctum of the arena and were pummeled by a blinding, pulsating light show that illuminated a writhing, hip shaking, groin rubbing spectacle the likes of which would’ve made Calligula salivate, but made me break out in an immediate ear to ear instead. My ass got real pointy-like. Russ didn’t look entirely unhappy either. Without another word said, we proceeded to disappear into the maw of the beast, swallowed whole, slaves to the rhythm; my flesh burning, my soul howling, my libido soon to be ratcheted up several notches.
Russ was determined to reach the front of the stage and midway there he and I got cut off by a cadre of hard core revelers who were oblivious to the world outside these circular walls, zoned instead on the feast before them, a laser-like focus on the sweaty mounds of flesh that swirled and bounced around them; pagans, wiccans, whirling dervishes, all bound by a communal trance on this ordained full moon.
For the next few hours I was tossed and swept away in a Felliniesque blizzard, led by voyeuristic instinct and various conga lines which I wasted no time in tagging along, giving me the opportunity to ogle even more captivating, enticing bodies of every size and dimension as the line snaked through the crowd that packed the coliseum floor; gobs of exposed flesh wiggling and shaking, barely garbed in the most inventive, beguiling costumes I’ve ever seen -Halloween paling in comparison- while a thunderous, bludgeoning, samba rhythm never relented, only serving to make every pelvic region under the dome gyrate to its every polyrhythmic nuance; a whirligig of sight and sound. In the immortal words of David Letterman, I was "hypmotized", baptized in the overflow.
And the hallucinogenic party raged on and on and on and on and on ... the squadron of drummers never tiring, bringing the gumbo of frenetic dancers to a boil.
Thankfully, your reporter, righteously lubed to a soft glow, and deservedly so, was still cognizant and willing when in the wee hours the barrage of samba drums grew silent and the overhead lights turned wicked night into sober dawn, the party thrumming to a buzzing, charitable close. And then -one can only imagine- even more mirth, merriment, and sexual acrobatics were on the agenda of many of the departing throng. After that irresistible buffet, how could it not?!
King Momo, who only minutes after being given the key to the Brazilian city which officially signaled the beginning of this year’s Carnavale, knowing that the masses of unbridled flesh were straining to unleash their power and glory, uttered a blazing, verbose oratory, ordering his quivering minions -who could barely contain their anticipation- to, "Have fun. Use condoms." And then all hell broke loose.
An aside here, so bear with me, but methinks a rather distinct possibility exists whereby many children are, more than likely, conceived during Carnavale, and if not conceived, then a helluva lot of practice to prepare for that day should it come. And as we all know, practice do make perfect.
Ah, the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh... pardon me, dear reader, I was momentarily back on the coliseum floor... time to reel in the technicolor snapshots from the evening which are forever mine, permanently etched in my libidinous memory.
As much as we might protest, eventually, every good thing does come to an end and end it does on Ash Wednesday when all Carnavale celebrants are expected to humbly, and with contrition, put their genitalia back under wraps, let the body cool down, the mind left to chill to a dull roar after the careening sensory overload. You can cross yourself more than once and say as many Hail Mary’s and light as many candles as you are able or need to, but don’t worry, fear not, you’ll be forgiven. What a concept, eh?! Ain’t it grand?! And should the cold turkey that follows be less than optimum, just remember, Carnavale is only a year away, a mere finger snap in the big tally of cosmic consciousness. Your body, your mind should be well recharged and more than ready when that day arrives, and barring an Earth ending cataclysm, it will. Then, as the next King gives the legions of eager participants the high sign, you can, once again, get your groove and your freak back on. Loosen up! Limber up! Bring on the samba! Hava nagela! Krishna krishna! Ungowa!!
But hell, don’t wait until the pontiffs give you their blessing. Like King Momo said, "Have fun". Every day should be a Carnavale of sorts.
One thing though... use condoms.
King Momo has spoken.
Y tan va.