Put on your Easter bonnet

Because New Orleans is overall a Catholic city - historically, you know, the French, the Spanish followed by Italians and Irish among others - Easter Sunday is a very big deal. Many stores close to observe the holy day with a lot of eating, drinking, some praying, but above all, parading.

I’m not quite sure how Easter got so far off the sacredness track, although our forefathers included debaucheries in every festivity. Perhaps when one of our premier exotic dancers Chris Owens started leading her own parade, even while dressed in a strapless gown, enormously gaudy flowered bonnet and mane of thick black hair. She recently passed away.

There are actually three parades in the French Quarter on Easter Sunday, starting before solemn mass at St. Louis Cathedral, continuing after mass; then the Chris Owens/no name parade followed by the Gay Parade. It is a full day.

Let’s hope the afternoon parade gets renamed faster than some of the monuments formerly dedicated to Confederate war heroes. Other than jazz musicians, there are few admirable city leaders we can all agree about, but consider that we were all okay with a former stripper.

There is nothing to distinguish Easter parades from other New Orleans parades except less live music, more expensive cars, including Jeeps driven by unrecognizable people and vehicles appearing to have been designed for desert warfare decorated with garlands.

Mules and brass bands get the day off. Nobody seems to mind, however, as long as the weather is nice and there’s a Bloody Mary in hand.

The Gay Parade used to be outrageous, but now that the bounds of outrage have been pushed so far over the edge, gay men in antebellum drag look pretty much the same as middle-aged, uptown white ladies - sometimes better, but it doesn’t matter much either way because nobody cares.

Dance corps were sparse this year, presumably because team members' attendance was required at upscale brunch spots with extended family, but those that did show up gave their all. The Muff-A-Lottas, dancing diner waitresses named for a classic Italian cold-cut sandwich, stole the show in their satin aprons and saddle shoes. Likewise, the Rolling Elvi (would that be singular or plural?) donned pompadours and jewel-studded suits to skate board or motor-scooter up Bourbon Street.

One thing that is fascinating to remember about these parades is that nobody is actually trying to look attractive or clever.

Tractor driver rocks out.