I have a love of food.  I am not ashamed to say it.  I dream of food and wake ravenous each day.  In the winter, I can tell if I am getting a cold by how hungry I am upon rising.

As I go my merry way planning my days around when and what I get to eat next, it is no surprise that I adore the holidays that are focused on food, all the ones in the fall and winter to be exact. I don't think it is coincidence that these holidays are during the major sweater wearing months either. Sweaters are great for hiding in when you pig out and have to undo the top button on your jeans (nod your head if you hear me).  All this said, it only makes sense that I love Mardi Gras.  No, not the tit flashing, bead earning drunken parade Mardi Gras (although that is fun), but the real Mardi Gras, which is French for Fat Tuesday. The holiday is technically THE major pig-out party right before Ash Wednesday and Lent, when everybody fasts and denies themselves things.  As you can imagine, I'm not into denying or going without.

Somehow, over time, I think we all forgot that Mardi Gras was originally about food and family celebrations, or maybe it was just easier to use it as an excuse to party on a Tuesday (who needs an excuse?), and the old way became, well, old-fashioned. Why do you think the whole Mardi Gras thing has never really caught on in Tacoma? I personally think it has to do with the distance between bars and nightclubs, whereas in Oly or Sea-Town the watering holes are close together and you can easily park and hit a few in one staggering swoop. In T-Town, it's drive-park-drink, repeat. And you only want to do the driving part so often after doing the drinking part.  Hence, no love for a holiday that begs you to travel from one bar to another and show off how plastered you are to the delight of your friends, not to mention Mr. Cop and his handy dandy Breathalyzer.  I have a great love of St. Paddy's Day, which tends to be a bigger holiday here, but that is another column. 

I choose to celebrate Mardi Gras the old-fashioned way, by stuffing my face. 

OK, and maybe a shot or two ...

Tuesday, Feb. 8

CHRONIC DISORDER shook up Jazzbones.  MIKEY DREAD followed with a killer reggae show. I wish it had been longer, yes I do.  REJJIE and I put away some food. He chugged amber ales and dark beauties while I, in a very ladylike manner, slugged back glass after glass of Blackstone Merlot, which happens to be a very good wine and, I might add, very well priced. Every time I drink wine like this it takes me back to my Bellingham days when I was 19 and lived two blocks from WWU campus. I drank so much red wine over one winter up there that my lips were stained and I constantly looked like I was smiling with the corners of my mouth curled up.  Whooohoooo.  Hence the term "Permanent Lipstick."

Needing giggles to keep us going, we cabbed it up to Smells Bitchin', I mean HELL'S KITCHEN, for comedy.  Nothing like laughing stupidly at stupidly comedic material.