We went to New Orleans for Mardi Gras and didn't see a single parade.
How pitiful is that?
Now mind you, we've seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of parades over the years. By some standards, we are Mardi Gras experts Moreover, there doesn't seem to be much hope that we'll be living anywhere else anytime soon, so we have many, many more Mardi Gras opportunities ahead. Still, why trek out to New Orleans, why pay for a hotel room, why shove our way through the crowds--if not to join in the celebration?
Because, dear reader, we were, once again. tricked. Duped. Manipulated. Hoodwinked. Fooled and flummoxed. Yet again teenaged Hugh pulled our strings and made us dance to his music.
Supposedly we were enjoying our last Mardi Gras with Hugh before he grows up and heads off to college. Supposedly we were introducing his classmate to the Mardi Gras experience--parades costumes and beads and masks and marching bands and "throw me something, mister!" In actuality, we were paying ridiculous sums of money to allow two horny teenaged boys to hook up with a crowd of nubile young things who attend the girls' school across the street. No parades, no interest in parades, just lots of masterful twisting and turning, flipping and flopping, obscuring and obfuscating, until we're left, a couple of confused, middle-aged, well-meaning souls, wondering why we're sitting in this ridiculously priced hotel room at 11 pm and where is our son and how in the hell did we let this happen again? Goldangit and goddammit. Why are we still so friggin' bad at this?
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