R for repeat. Everything below the fold anyway.
The local news folks have been on Storm Watch 2006 for the last three days, and because I'm a certifed weather spotter--though I'm never been called on to spot--I'm going to spend my usual blog writing time sitting on my front porch, Kevin Brockmeier's highly touted new book in hand, waiting for the promised storm. Instead of fresh content on this Mardi Gras morning, I'm reposting a little something I wrote in the early days of Syntax of Things, back when I got eight visitors a day and four of them were me. Anyway, it's relevant to today's festivities, so maybe one or two of you will learn something you didn't already know. I'll have new content up later in the day.
Because it's Mardi Gras, I think I'll spend the day playing the role of
"Trivial Trivia Man" and tell everyone I know that Mobile, Alabama, not
New Orleans, is the original home of Mardi Gras in the United States.
I know that people in both cities love to debate this fact, and most concede
that New Orleans is the true "home" of what all of us know as the
modern day Mardi Gras celebration, the one of bead throwing and boob
showing--not necessarily in that order. But Mobile still puts on a
pretty nice party of its own. My fondest MG memory will always be
sitting in Bienville Square in downtown Mobile on Shrove Tuesday, surrounded by thousands
of drunk and getting drunker revelers, and watching the cops on
horseback ride by and yank underage drinkers up by the collar to escort
them on the horse's thigh to the nearest station for processing. I
think it was that day that my then wife lost her I.D. and we ended up
leaving for a Godfather's Pizza so that we could sober up and try to
remember where her I.D. could be. (Turned out it was in the liner of
Mobile also originated the throwing of Moon Pies from the floats. Nothing beats a plastic-wrapped, banana- or chocolate-flavored projectile hitting you in the face. Unless, of course, it's one of those doubloons smacking you on any part of the body. To see all of those people standing along the parade route holding open huge garbage bags in order to collect this useless booty is a life-altering experience. On numerous occasions, I witnessed grown women hip check kids out of the way for a plastic flute or a rubber chicken. Ah, Mardi Gras.
Not to be outdone, San Diego has its own Mardi Gras party.
If you're willing to pay
fifteen twenty bucks to stand in a cordoned-off
section of downtown, you too can be part of the largest Mardi Gras west
of the Rockies (or so they tell me). Since I can always find something
better to do with $15$20, I haven't checked out San Diego's Fat Tuesday
celebration, but I hear it's a nice rip-off of the real thing. Since
it's 21 and up, the booze flows freely (figure of speech, mind you) and
the beads are earned, if you catch my drift.
Nope, no Mardi Gras for me. I'm going to spend my day cloaked in the purple and gold cape of knowledge, handing out my little beads of true Mardi Gras facts to the one or two people who still listen to my rantings. At some point, I'll probably give some thought to what I plan to pretend to give up for Lent, but I can tell you that I would rather consider the lint in my belly button. I'm off to a pretty good start however. I've decided to give up this (NSFW or minors without adult consent), at least for now.