A Truly Fat Tuesday; Parading around New Orleans in a Goliath SUV seems just right during the annual carnival of indulgence.(Brief Article)

Customers in the heavy-duty utility segment say they want a vehicle capable of ``doing it all'' with everything and everyone.

Ford Excursion press kit New Orleans, Fat Tuesday, 8:20 a.m.-We woke to the sound of brass bands. The Zulu King was coming. Rex, King of Carnival, would follow. I sat up in a weary haze from the mess of blankets and pillows we'd tossed into the cavernous rear compartment of Big Chief Truckus, aka an Arizona Beige Ford Excursion. Fat Tuesday would be upon us before we could get out of the way. We pried ourselves from the portly SUV. St. Charles Avenue already spilled over with half-drunk revelers who'd fought hellish traffic and hangover-piercing alarm clocks to get there. The four of us-trouble-seeking 20-somethings in a truck masquerading as a parade float-were well rested, despite having played host to a procession of French Quarter freaks until 3 a.m. Prepared to go nowhere, we were ready for our Bloody Marys. Impersonating a parade-side hotel was Big Chief's last grand farce on a 10-day tour, securing its reign as the Automotive King of Carnival 2000. The recipe was simple: Take the big-gest people-hauler on the planet and turn it into the most obvious of sight gags: a parade float. With tape and rope, I attached spears, flags, strings of lights (in official purple, green and gold), jester dolls hung in effigy from the roof rack. And the crown jewel: a three-foot-tall papier-mache skeleton mask for a hood ornament. The mission was absurdity: Stand out from the hordes of jesters, stilt-walkers, cross-dressers, flesh-peddlers, ne'er-do-wells and fortunetellers ever-present in New Orleans but out in force at Carnival. To be actors, not observers, in the modern Mardi Gras, and in the process to find its soul. (Also to avoid traffic, jail, vandalism, lawsuits-pros-pects were slim.) With its costume fitted, Big Chief needed a test run in a bona fide parade. We coaxed and cajoled our way into the relatively minor league Krewe of Gladiators parade in St. Bernard Parish, just east of the city. Minutes after we got in line, a modest bag of beads at the ready, it became clear that the float costume had worked entirely too well. Urchins were crawling at the windows screaming, ``Hey! Don't be light! Gimme some beads!'' They mistook truck decorations for freebies. They tried to kidnap jester dolls and hijack spears. For the next three hours I crept at 5 mph, trying in vain to conserve beads, staring straight ahead to avoid the beckoning looks of women and children. Big Chief wasn't built to be a follower; we'd have to carve out our own route. Over the next week, we settled into a rhythm, hauling people to parades, tossing beads in the Quarter, giving rides to strays who offered intriguing and horrifying stories in return. We put Chief's formidable interior capacity to use, once hauling a dangerous quantity of booze to a costumed golf tournament, another time hauling a mess of film equipment and 14 people-with no lap sitting-from party to party. There were snags, to be sure. Rewiring the Mardi Gras lights that outlined the Excursion's massive profile became a morning ritual. We tried plugging adapters into Chief's ubiquitous interior power outlets-after several shorts and a burned finger, I hardwired the light strings straight to the battery. Bad idea; we later had to get a jump on Bourbon Street. Staying on top of Chief's wind-and rain-battered decorations was much easier. Don't even ask about the fuel bill. Our spirits

were bolstered by the instant fans we made on the road. On Friday, ...