Ash Wednesday has to be one of my favorite Catholic days, especially now when Catholicism is a distant cultural relic to me. (By the way, I thought it was one of theHoly Days of Obligation, but it’s not. Duh. It’s not even mandatory. But since there’s some story about a guy getting killed in a boar hunt after not going, you might want to think about it.)

When I was a kid, just about everyone was Catholic, but I don’t really remember people walking around with ashes all day. I think maybe we didn’t get them until an evening mass. I have a hard time imagining everyone in town getting up wicked early for mass.

Now, as an adult, even though I know exactly what’s up with the ashes, when I see a random ashen forehead, I feel like helping the person rub it off. You know, hand them a tissue with a little spit on it maybe.

Also on the Catholic front, I was just surprised by a commentator on the local 11 p.m. news saying something about Mardi Gras in New Orleans would be “winding down” tonight and the rest of the week, or something like that. What the fuck, winding down? What about ending? It’s suppose to stop, end, fini with the beginning of Lent tomorrow.

I was there at least a decade or so ago, and it was fucking amazing. At some point around dawn when it was clearly Ash Wednesday, everything shut the fuck down, the streets were cleared, and all partiers were to cease partying. There could be no stragglers.

OK, I confess, I have no fucking clue what time on Wednesday it all ended, since at some point prior to dawn the word “blackout” had a whole lot of shades of meaning. The drinking on Tuesday had begun in earnest at a 10 a.m. breakfast/brunch party. Some time during the late afternoon, I passed out at another party. My companions stapled a note to my dress with directions to the next party. After a quick little catnap to fight off toxic effects I roused myself, saw the note and met up with them on schedule. After a few more parties, meandering through the streets of the French Quarter and a few more parties gaining access to prime balcony real estate above the streets, there was nightclubbing to be done. Eventually, after smoking a little weed with Tyrone down from Baton Rouge to make a few business deals involving the product we just shared, who chivalrously poured me into a cab that I snuck out of on the other side, and just saying “no” to a threesome involving two, cute Aussie students, I did end up at my hotel at some unknown time. As did, Kevin, my partner in crime long ago lost in the madness and crowds.

Anyway, at some point on Wednesday, I remember going to the French Quarter. It was a relative ghost town. I could see my feet, impossible in the crowds the night before, and I could see a truly awesome amount of empty nitrous oxide canisters. You could shuffle your feet through them like leaves in autumn gathered in the gutter.

It was so done and the streets were so quiet, I practically felt pure and Lenten and clean.

Also on a religious note, I think it seems very American the hew and cry about the violence of Mel Gibson’s new flick. Um, the dude (Jesus not Mel) was whipped, stabbed with a spear, beaten a tad, forced to hike for a bit with a heavy load and left to die in the sun like a dog, if you believe the story. That couldn’t have been pretty. Across the world, in those messy, non-sanitized, little corners where Americans don’t typically hang out, realism is totally a part of the deal. Blood and gore are fucking holy. The whole story is about the blood. It ain’t symbolism if you have faith in that whole transubstantiation thing, it’s holy blood. Very hip and goth-like.

Check this out:

The people who made that wouldn’t be whining about icky gross violent death, and what about the kids? WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDRENS?

Americans are such pussies.

Happy Ash Wednesday (or serious and pious one any way) to anyone who feels the Lord