Zulu coconuts. St. Charles Ave. Getting the baby. Flambeaux. Floats. St. Aug. Marching 100. The Meeting of Comus and Rex. Throw me something, Mister. Purple Green and Gold.Besides Bourbon Street and showing your tits, most people don’t know anything about Mardi Gras. They’ve never seen its magic, it’s not in their blood, and they can’t grasp its essence. Sure, they’ve seen commercials for “Girls Gone Wild,” but mention the Krewe of Hermes and no one knows a thing.

Mardi Gras lives inside me, dormant for ten months of the year and dominant from Jan. 6 to Shrove Tuesday; a true New Orleanian never shows his Carnival side until the Feast of the Epiphany, when McKenzie’s puts out king cakes and royalty are declared.

Growing up, the highs I recall were sitting atop the ladder my father made for his two short sons at Endymion, catching two cheap watches and snagging a plastic rose between my dangling feet. Going to bed early Lundi Gras night (more exciting than Christmas Eve) as Dad stayed up to fry chicken, to be eaten as we waited four hours in the morning sun to see Zulu and Rex himself. Having a float stalled in front of us for minutes, throwing to the clammering crowd those cheap, plastic cups.

Mardi Gras, for some, is about one thing: utterly unabashed excess. It no longer relates much to religion or tradition, just to beer and boobs. Last year, a product called the “Sneaky Leaker” was introduced onto the streets to aid those who couldn’t be bothered with bathrooms. A tube connected to the penis runs down the inside of the pant seam and out onto the street.

Now if you ask me, that’s just dirty.

I feel like an old-timer. But by high school I was still going to parades with family or marching in my Junior ROTC drill team. I’ve done the Bourbon Street thing, seen the flashing at Cat’s Meow, but my image of Mardi Gras remains mostly pure. You stand on the street and wait for hours (tossing footballs, running around), until gorgeous floats throw you cheap plastic. You go home, wearing your loot.

It’s completely absurd, really, this massive party taking over the city for two weeks a year, swimming in mystery and tradition. And there’s nothing like it in the world.

I’m old enough to do the French Quarter now. I’m a vegetarian (so long, Dad’s fried chicken) and a pacifist I suppose (so long, JROTC), but, being away from it for the first time in 18 years, I can’t avoid my memories.

Come on, baby, let the good times roll.