Joey Cirilo

Where Y'at Magazine — The reverberation of snare drums and brass instruments throughout the littered streets begins to fade. A path is forged amongst the go-cups, makeshift coolers, discarded throws, plastic bags, and food remnants. Mardi Gras attendees, fatigued from yet another year of prolonged celebrations, recall both their individual and shared experiences as they make their way home. Feet dragging, shoulders heavily weighed from the mélange of beads draped from their necks, arms resting lazily at their sides, the physical embodiment of a successful Mardi Gras coming to an end. The countdown for next year's debaucherous festivities has already begun.

Where Y'at Magazine — In some traditions, it marks the day that John the Baptist baptized Jesus. Other traditions, it is the day that the Three Wise Men, after traveling for 12 days, visited the infant Jesus and bestowed upon him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. In secular tradition, Twelfth Night signifies the ending of Christmas and the official commencement of wintertime.

Where Y'at Magazine — ​​Despite the lack of snowfall, the holidays in New Orleans are a uniquely wonderful time of the year. In a city that finds any excuse for a raucous celebration regardless of what the calendar says, holiday-related festivities are in abundance.

Where Y'at Magazine — 24-hour bars are a staple in this city as much as po-boys. Each one offering up their own idiosyncratic experience along with their finest well whiskey. The dreaded phrase "Last call" echoes throughout the crowded room as lights begin to flicker to life. They're surprisingly brighter than what you had anticipated. Drunken, disgruntled patrons with drooped shoulders signifying yet another defeat saunter towards the crowded exit. The warning shot is always anticipated, yet shockingly alarming. Why must the night's festivities end so abruptly?

Where Y'at Magazine — Vampires walking amongst the crowd, the fresh blood from their most recent victim spilling from the corners of their smirking lips. Members of the walking dead desperately seeking to satisfy their never-ending hunger. No, John Carpenter didn't release a new film—it's simply the Saturday night before Halloween weekend in New Orleans, and Krewe of BOO! is officially underway.

Where Y'at Magazine — "There's certain things in life that I love. One is architecture. And music, culture, food, people. New Orleans has all of that." —Lenny Kravitz

Where Y'at Magazine — The staggering possibilities of establishments capable of serving you a cold one in the French Quarter are enough to leave your head spinning. Before you've had your first sip, you must trust that there is a method to the madness.

Where Y'at Magazine — Amidst the sprawling festival grounds, a tantalizing array of food and beverage stands await. Pop-up vendors and brick and mortar establishments from across Louisiana operate under heavy duress in makeshift kitchens, posting signage baiting overly-eager festival goers with promises of nourishment and hydration in exchange for sweaty cash.

Substack — This is a heavy topic and I'll do my best to keep it concise. This morning, Monday March 27th, a shooter took the lives of 3 adults and 3 children at a school that teaches pre-k through 6th grade in Nashville, Tennessee. As an American, we're all too familiar with the storyline.

Substack — As I sit down to write this I pause for a brief moment and glance over my right shoulder, catching the sun setting from the view of my living room window in my New Orleans home. The last sunset of 2022. How fitting.

Substack — "What the fuck is that smell?!" I shot up in my hotel bed like the Undertaker in the late-90s. Okay, perhaps that comparison is a tad unreasonable. Leave it up to me to contrast a severely hungover state with a world-class athlete in their prime. We're off to a hot start here, folks.

Substack — This piece is inevitably going to piss some of you off. Others, perhaps it will resonate. Whatever. The gloves are off. I'm coming in hot. Bo Burnham encapsulated it best. So let's start there, shall we? "Um...is it...is it necessary?

Substack — Four years. It was on this date four years ago that the world lost Anthony Bourdain. A flashbulb memory etched so vividly into my consciousness I couldn't discard it if I tried. Since then? Northern California wildfires. The murder of Jamal Khashoggi. Protests in Hong Kong. George Floyd. COVID-19.

Substack — "You know how you never realize you're experiencing something great until it's over?! I wish there was a way you could know in the moment!" I backed away, slightly. Shooting my friend the globally-recognized 'where the fuck did that just come from' expression as I collected my thoughts, attempting to respond in an acceptable amount of time.

Substack — "I just lost my job..." The words rang hollow. As if someone else had taken control of my body and was speaking for me. I'm the ventriloquist doll and life currently had its hand elbow-deep in my ass with the lube intentionally left at home.

Substack — My sincerest apologies on the delay of my second piece. For the sake of continued transparency, I embarked on a very last-minute trip to New York, the net result of which being a five day bender that proceeded to shut down my immune system and officially render me a useless human being the moment I returned to New Orleans.

Substack — In what is an already desperate attempt to minimize self-embarrassment, some preemptive confessions are in order. Am I a writer? Fuck no. At least not by my definition (I don't have a true definition, so please don't inquire about one.) Let's keep our expectations low here, yeah?