The Ole Fart at Mardi Gras

Feb 7, 2008 by

Living in the French Quarter, I hate Mardi Gras. I hate the French Quarter Fest, Louis Armstrong’s Birthday, the Super Bowl, the Sugar Bowl, and Presidents taking dumps in Jackson Square.

That last should be reserved for pigeons, drunks, and gutter punks.

But I have to tell you, I had a pretty nice Mardi Gras this year. I wisely stayed within a four-block radius of the old homestead and didn’t pick fights with people half my age. I actually acted my age and had fun.

I took some pictures with my teeny-tiny camera – the one that’s easy to tote, rather than the big one that makes me look like a real photographer-with-a-capital-P but keeps getting heavier and heavier every minute it hangs around my neck.

The people I encountered were nice and having a ball in the beautiful weather. Everything was copacetic. Amazingly, too, the drunker I got, the more attractive I seemed to become to all those people who kept trying to cross the street rather than presume to try to hug and kiss me. I even let people take pictures of me. Probably not a wise move. But Mardi Gras was never meant for wisdom.

Everything was lovely.

But now we are two days into Lent.

I love Lent. It’s my season. It’s the one time of the year when everyone is expected to live their lives as I experience mine. Being on top is nice, even if it is for only forty days.

Did I mention I hate Easter? All those damn parades …


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