I hate this time of the year down here on the bayou. Truth be told, I hate the bayou period, but home is where the military sends us (for eight freaking years) so I make due.
But Mardi Gras season is when I hate it the most.
The streets are lined with RVs, staking out spots for the next parade. The streets are also lined with port-o-lets, litter, beads, beer bottles, and more plastic throw crap than you can flash a tit at. Traffic is fucked for an entire month. And for the record, moon pies and King Cakes suck ass.
This morning when my kids were discussing the Mardi Gras celebration they'd have at school today, my daughter mournfully announced, "We don't celebrate Mardi Gras," the same way she'd state that we don't celebrate Hanukkah or go to church.
The entire Mardi Gras season is based on the kind of excess and extravagance that my puritanical New England heart finds most abhorrent.
You wouldn't find a bunch of Bostonians out drunk in the streets flashing their body parts at each other. Well, except for St Patrick's Day. And St Anthony's feast. And New Year's Eve. And, well, Fridays.
This time of the year always finds us trying to make escape plans. This year's escape plan involves a year long remote tour with a choice follow-on assignment. We'll see if anything actually comes of it this year.
If I see one more bead whore desperate for a tacky piece of plastic crap, I will consider it a year well spent.
So here's to Ash Wednesday and the entire Lenten season. By Fat Tuesday every year, I am ready for the somber and sacrifice. Maybe in forty days, I'll be ready to live my life on the bayou again.