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According to the Times-Picayune, parish Councilman Vincent Cox was in a joking mood after the measure was approved in a 4-0 vote. “So we’re pro-panties—it’s on the record,” he cracked.

Making headlines on the parade beat was the Krewe of Orpheus’ (ultimately successful) effort to lobby the New Orleans City Council to allow it to parade ahead of Bards of Bohemia on Lundi Gras (Fat Monday). Bards, which used to roll two Sundays before Fat Tuesday, moved to Monday night in 1993. That night had previously belonged to the Krewe of Proteus. But after its 1992 procession, Proteus, in response to the city’s newly adopted anti-discrimination ordinance, dropped out of the parade lineup—thus following in the footsteps of  two other old-line clubs. The Knights of Momus and the Mistick Krewe of Comus, while the ordinance controversy was unfolding, had bowed out after their 1991 parades. All three clubs, resisting what they regarded as an intrusion into their private affairs, ultimately refused to sign a city-mandated affidavit saying there was no discrimination in their membership ranks.

Then in 1994, the Krewe of Orpheus, founded by musician Harry Connick Jr., debuted on Monday night, rolling behind Bards. In subsequent years, tensions between the two organizations— Orpheus griped that Bards didn’t start on time—escalated into a feud. Orpheus, a much larger, glitzier parade featuring big-name celebrity monarchs, wanted to precede Bards but was stymied by a krewe “seniority” provision in city ordinances governing the scheduling of Mardi Gras parades.

That is, until Proteus reentered the parade picture. Having adopted changes to its bylaws and articles of incorporation, the krewe, founded in 1882, signed the city-mandated affidavit, clearing the way for its return to the streets for Mardi Gras 2000.

When Bards Captain Lawrence Smith agreed to let Proteus roll ahead of his parade, the politically connected Orpheus pounced. Unbeknownst to Smith, Orpheus approached members of the City Council. By having given the nod to Proteus to roll first, Bards, Orpheus argued, had effectively opened the door for a more sweeping reshuffling of the Monday lineup.

The upshot: The City Council, temporarily waiving the seniority provision, voted to allow Orpheus to roll before Bards. (The council subsequently passed a new ordinance; in essence, it dictates that seniority is no longer the sole criteria for determining the scheduling of Mardi Gras parades.)

Smith, who is an attorney, initially vowed to fight the decision in court. He had a signed agreement with Proteus saying that the krewe could parade in front of Bards so long as Bards didn’t have to give up its 6:30 p.m. slot. But after threatening to file a lawsuit naming Proteus and the City Council as defendants, Smith—apparently not wanting to be cast in the role of the spoiler—backed off.

Proteus 2000 offering a toast at Gallier Hall Sidelined by the antidiscrimination ordinances, he hadn't been seen on the streets since 1992.

The return of Proteus not only marked the first time a krewe had paraded in three different centuries, but also represented a significant rapprochement between city officials and the old-line Carnival aristocracy (whose members were the targets of the anti-discrimination ordinance). Proteus shares a den on Bordeaux St. with Comus and Momus, whose floats have been gathering dust since their last appearance in 1991. The scene outside the den before these clubs took to the streets on their respective parade nights had always been festive, with neighbors and well-wishers gathering to watch as the floats were rolled out. But hardly anyone could have anticipated the theatrics that began to unfold outside the den at around 4:15 p.m. on Monday, as Proteus was preparing to make its way to the formation area on Napoleon Ave.

With several floats already lined up on Laurel St. near Bordeaux, four Comus krewemen unexpectedly appeared, carrying a cooler with champagne. Three of them wielded large sterling goblets, signifying that they’d had the privilege of assuming the persona of the mythological god Comus and reigning over the club’s Mardi Gras festivities. The delegation toasted the Proteus monarch, the club’s captain and its membership. Then a few minutes later, after the Proteus krewemen had returned the toast, Mayor Marc Morial arrived to formally welcome Proteus back to the streets.

Morial climbed atop the king’s float and, in a toast, thanked the krewe and its leadership for having taken the “courageous step” of signing the affidavit that cleared the way for their return. Proteus dignitaries then returned the toast, praising the mayor for having supported the krewe members’ efforts to put the racial controversy behind them. Afterwards, the krewemen gathered around to shake the mayor’s hand and extend their best wishes to him and the city.

For surprised local residents and other onlookers, the scene was quite a treat.  According to a Proteus official, “they couldn’t believe what was going on.”

As it turns out, this official had requested that Morial be on hand for the occasion. However, due to a scheduling conflict—the mayor had a 5 p.m. commitment to greet Zulu dignitaries at Aquarium Plaza along the riverfront—he wasn’t expected to show.  “It was a great gesture for [him] to be there,” says the official.

Indeed, the return of Proteus, and the spontaneous, heartfelt exchange of mutual appreciation between the mayor and the krewe, seemed to symbolize hope for racial harmony in the new millennium. Just before the old-time Proteus floats, which depicted the theme “Flights of Fantasy,” began making their way down St. Charles Ave., Queen Zulu 2000, Desireé Glapion Rogers, accompanied by an entourage, arrived by Coast Guard cutter near Aquarium Plaza. But alas, what should have been an unreservedly joyous occasion—capping the Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club’s annual Lundi Gras celebration along the riverfront—was tinged with sadness.

Proteus returns in "Flights of Fantasy" The old-time procession, featuring floats built on 19th century cotton wagons with wooden-spoked wheels, delighted Carnival traditionalists.

The queen’s father, Roy E. Glapion Jr., a city councilman and chairman of the board of Zulu, had been crowned at his home on December 26. Hours before he died of colon cancer two days later, at age 64, the Zulus, by voting unanimously not to elect a replacement king, honored one of his dying wishes: to go down in the records as King Zulu 2000.  next page

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