Ain’t misbehavin’ we ain’t, for Wednesday the next ceases the season of our debauchery. The village sits in the shadow of the castle of the King, the fourth of his august name. His Majesty’s well-hung steeds issue forth from the palace gates to sate us, his goodly serfs, with his golden suds. And drink them we shall. Then lift up our shirts. And our chests — be they perky, petite or the slackest of dugs — will waken in winter’s blustery breeze as the strapping young lads on fanciful floats will toss us their strings of cheap little beads. Yes, Mardi Gras is upon us and ours, the second-best of its kind (or so we are told), sings to us its siren song. Herein find the wisdom and wit, culled from countless carnivals past (for we likes our liquor, yes indeedy we do), to make best use of these times in this humblest of hovels, most Frenchish of quarters, this rehabber’s delight, this ... More >>>