On Jackson Square I have been witness time and time again to large groups of runners, gay people, pirates, African Americans, running bulls, Lutherans and many more. So I can say with a certain bit of authority that none of them get wasted like the red dress runners.
Maybe it’s the swampy heat or maybe it’s just an appetite for self-destruction but, by the time I usually pack it in around 6 p.m. on the day of the event, it is not uncommon to still see packs of carousing, trashed, disheveled, sweat-sodden, limping, gassed, muddled revelers adorned in sweaty and liquor soaked red gowns still swaggering among the French Quarter streets. Their revelry can not be contained. Later and later into the day, their numbers may atrophy but this only distills them into a core group of remnants, the true Spartans of spirits. These are the men and women whose drinking could be captured in some NFL Films type documentary. Faces flushed and eyes bloodshot to match their dresses, these champions finish what they begin.
Once more into the breach Red Dress Runners! I’ll see you out there!