In the non-New Orleans (read uninhabitable) parts of the United States, Super Sunday means a day in February when football teams get together to see who can simultaneously bore the most people.

Not so in Southeast Louisiana.

We love our Saints but when you read about Super Sunday in New Orleans it means it’s time to gather together and parade with the Mardi Gras Indians.

Which is exactly what we did this past weekend on Bayou Saint John.

A month or so ago the Uptown Mardi Gras Indians had the first Super Sunday of the year.

Sunday March 29th 2015, it was the downtown Indians turn.

The procession began at Bayou Saint John.

Where thousands of people and hundreds of Mardi Gras Indians gathered to begin a multi-mile long parade route.

Brass bands, drummers, fire walkers, baby dolls, street vendors, stilt walkers, and just plain regular folk came together as one under a crystal blue Louisiana sky.

But you never know when shots might get popped off so we’re always ready to shuck and buck.

The parade did run right by where a body had been found riddled with bullet holes just a few hours earlier.

After all, this is New Orleans.

Thankfully the worst offense we spotted during the parade was people throwing trash on the ground.

Some folks just weren’t raised right.

After following the procession for a mile or so, we made a mad dash back up to the Econoline so we could intercept the parade further down the road.

We like following the parade for a few blocks then riding ahead to catch up with the party-goers later in the route.

That way we don’t end up with a multi-mile hike back to the van at the end of the party.

And what a party it was.

We love the roving cocktail vendors pulling Radio Flyer wagons stocked with booze, bitters, ice and mixers.

There’s something about buying a Dark n Stormy off a guy named Lester in the middle of the tarmac on Broad Street with a gang of cops 10 feet away.

And the police are quite circumspect. They could easily make hundreds of arrests but most of them are too busy eating turkey legs and flirting with all the pretty girls to be worried about hassling folks trying to have a good time.

This stands as a stark counterpoint to our former home of Austin, Texas where the cops are so bored out of their minds that they write tickets for jaywalking like they live in fucking Mayberry or some shit.

Let’s hope NOPD doesn’t make their officers pee in a cup. After wading through the thick fog banks of weed smoke at Super Sunday these cops could get in big trouble.

We did not see a single fight nor any real crimes to speak of.

Everybody’s so busy partying they don’t have any time to beef.

One thing we kept wondering was “where do the Indians live?” Do they just have normal lives as bankers, counter clerks, architects, line cooks, dockhands etc or are they full-time Indians who are hunting and fishing and living on acreage out in St John The Baptist Parish?

Perhaps there is an expert reading this article who can inform us.

And how long have women been allowed to mask and parade?

While the percentage of female Indians was tiny, they were wearing some of the craziest outfits on the parade route.

What do American Indians think of these Mardi Gras Indians?

Are they cool with the outfits or is the whole thing a thorn in their side?

We’ve been thinking about the Indians an awful lot lately.

One of our dear friends, a gal named Ross, was vacationing in New Orleans in the 70s when she spotted a Mardi Gras Indian.

She whipped out her camera and snapped a photo without hesitating for one moment.

The Indian stalked up on her and brusquely demanded to know what she thought she was doing.

“I’m a tourist” Ross, all five feet nothing of her, responded.

“I want fifty dollars right now” the Indian barked.

Ross meekly pulled her purse out and gave him the money. A king’s ransom for a broke hippie chick in the 70s.

Nowadays if the Indians even got a dollar a snap they would go home rich.

There were dozens of photogs, amateur and pro out there on Sunday.

Trying to take pictures was like swimming in a whirlpool.

I caught an elbow in the ribs from a little old granny woman who looked like like she’d be in an ad for knitting yarn.

“Back off” she snarled.

And she meant it too.

It would’ve been embarrassing to get in a tussle with a woman the age of my grandma at Super Sunday.

And doubly embarrassing if she would’ve gotten the best of me.

At the end of the party we’re left wondering what in the Hell we’re supposed to do with our Sundays now?

What do the squares of the world (aka non-New Orleanians) do on Sunday with no Mardi Gras Indians around to parade through their town?