Saturnalia Night at MoMs

MoM's remains, as a friend of mine put it, the highlight of the adult Mardi Gras. I'm not going to try to describe it at length until I have the space and time to really do it justice. That means, not until I get home.

If you've never been, it's hard to describe. First, read Wolfe's The Eletric Kook-Aid Acid Test. Then borrow an anti-rave film from you daughter's dare teacher. Then, Google up "Bosch Hell". The look on the face of the tormented soul is the look of the MoM's Reveler.

Two things I remembered after 18 years away from MoM's. I remembered why I don't like masks. I know some of the people I collided with wrote me off as one of the hopeless drunks, but I was merely peripheral vision impaired. The second is, bring your own booze. If you tip too well for a cocktail, you get a glass full of two-dollar-a-gallon white rum, with ice.

I ended up guzzling ice water most of the night, which cause a host of what I think were young X heads to congregate around me, thinking me one of their own. The truth is, one rum and tonic, and one rum and ice, and I was done. I learned going to Grateful Dead concerts and having just a few bears that there is a tremendous contact high to be had in the right places. At MoM's, everyone is tripping, whether they intended to or not. And that is probably the best description I can give of MoM's. If that means nothing to you from personal experience, then you will likely never understand MoMs.