Carnival season is under way in New Orleans, having been kicked off last Saturday night (Jan. 5 — Twelfth Night) to continue until Fat Tuesday, February 12.

That’s such an early date for Mardi Gras that local vendors had begun selling King Cakes in grocery stores by Thanksgiving to make up for days lost.

The Phunny Phorty Phellows start Carnival festivities, dressing in elaborate costumes and boarding a St. Charles streetcar for a rolling party that traverses the car’s entire route.

My wife was at an occasion with neighbors where blues harmonica player and singer J. Monque’D was also in attendance. It was J. Monque’D who once described Mardi Gras as “Christmas, your birthday, Halloween and Easter all rolled into one.” Or something like that.

J. Monque’D will dominate the conversation of a roomful of people and might have during that occasion but for my wife’s question to him.

“Is it Phorty Phunny Phellows or Phunny Phorty Phellows?” she asked, as though he might have misspoke.

“No, it’s Phunny Phorty Phellows,” he replied confidently.

“Phorty Phunny Phellows?” she asked.

“No it’s …” and he started inverting the order of Phunny and Phorty himself until he was no longer sure.

None of it is a big deal except to somebody who is already obsessive/compulsive and who also considers himself a leading authority on anything Mardi Gras. The other guests were able to carry their own normal, uninterrupted conversations while this went on.

Backed right into Mardi Gras this year is the Super Bowl on Feb. 3.  No parades have been scheduled that day and none Uptown during the whole Super Bowl weekend.

New streetcar lines under construction near the Super Dome have streets there in disarray. The construction was supposed to be completed by Super Bowl. Guess what?

Super Bowl guests will just have to adjust to dysfunction. Mardi Gras guests look forward to it.
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I should take a few lines to acknowledge the loss of this newspaper’s most prolific and loyal letter writers.

Mrs. Eva Ellzey died Jan. 3 at age 94.

Over the years her letters always led a cheer for Democrats, occasionally predicted storms, hinted at awkward scandals, praised her Savior, along with addressing a variety of other subjects. She would also pen personal notes, including one that chastised me for always referring in print to feline creatures as “damncats.”

As she grew older, reading her handwriting become more of a challenge, but if we got stumped, we learned it was usually worthwhile to set it aside until the next day for another look.

Real letters in real handwriting are becoming so rare now as to become treasures.