NEW ORLEANS -- Is it wise to aggravate fate, mess with karma, toy with the voodoo? The Super Bowl is Feb. 7, the weekend when Mardi Gras kicks in, a day when parades and beads and Hurricane-lubed drunks and even an army of costumed dogs converge for the megaparty that always has defined the city's uninhibited vibe. Only this time, some of the parades are being canceled, with the natives daring to embrace the unfathomable thought. The Saints, they insist, will be playing in the Super Bowl.
Mardi Gras, they declare, will have to wait.
It has been a silly notion to date, based on a woeful history in which the team has been renamed the Aints and fans have worn bags over their heads in a region ravaged by natural disasters and blight. But Saturday, during a three-hour jubilee of touchdowns and titillation, no one pondered the cursed past. From the long-awaited breakout performance of Reggie Bush, to the priest who hugged umbrella-toting owner Tom Benson, to the kiss coach Sean Payton planted on Bush's cheek, to the sound of 69,623 loons -- a mere 526 Arizona fans were in the house -- bouncing raucous decibels off the Superdome's concrete roof, this didn't seem like a story headed toward a crash next week.




