I need to give up being myself for lent

I decided to start writing my column on Lent with my laptop on my lap at the Toyota dealership while waiting for my car to get its tires rotated. Better than absent-mindedly phone-scrolling and exacerbating my burgeoning brain rot. Anyway, I got to walking around the showroom floor to take a peek at what new and enticing amenities like dash cams, built-in GPS, and self-parking sensors you can get on the latest models.

My current vehicle is six years old and came with a few electronic wizards and doohickeys, but I’m still parallel parking by sight. All that’s fine, but you know what, though? I do pine for days of my youth when cars had switches, knobs, cranks and things you could push or pull. Things made of metal. Things you could fiddle with. What more do you need? And whatever happened to window vents and bench seats? Not to mention push-button AM/FM radios.

I confess to being one of those guys who wax sentimental about those days of chrome and big steering wheels with, dare I say it, a drop of romanticism. And I’m not the only one. Case in point: In movies and television, hero-type main characters are more than likely apt to drive a pristine vintage automobile. Why? Because they are cool, whether it’s a ‘65 GTO, ‘58 Vette, or some kind of muscle car like a Mustang or Barracuda. You know, the good old days when cars were named after horses and fish.

It seems car makers eventually ran out of wildlife and then started coming up with non-existent exotic-sounding words like Elantra, Acura, Toronado or Sentra. Even today, some are downright nonsensical: Fit, Probe, Brat, Tiguan or Cruze.

I mean, you watch; one day they’ll get around to naming cars after food. Can you imagine, say, the Cadillac Empanada? Ford Frajita? Or Chevy Chicharone? How about driving around in the Toyota Taquito or Buick Brisket?

Maybe body parts. The new Knuckle! The Ventricle!

My mind is wandering now. Moving on.

We’re entering the Lenten season next week. It begins a little later this year because back in 325 AD the Church established that Easter would be held on the first Sunday after the Paschal full moon, which is the first full moon after the vernal equinox. Now, all you have to do is count 40 days backward - not including Sundays - and there you have Ash Wednesday, the first day of the Lenten season. Since Ash Wednesday is a day of fasting, we want to make sure we have enough food to see us through, so the day before anything goes.

Hence, Mardi Gras. Fat Tuesday. It’s also known as Shrove Tuesday, Pancake Tuesday and Carnival (farewell to meat).

Although its origins can be traced back to medieval France, the New Orleans version of Mardi Gras was thought up by some people in Mobile, Alabama long before there were college spring breaks, risque behavior, and general debauchery. During my New Orleans period, I knew some people who wanted to start Mardi Gras on New Year’s Day, but for me, it’s all about the music, and to get into the spirit of things, I’m putting together a mixtape of Mardi Gras classics. They’re all on Spotify I believe, and they go great with crawfish etouffee and muffulettas.

Check these out: Go To The Mardi Gras by Professor Longhair, All On a Mardi Gras Day by The Wild Magnolias; Allen Toussaint’s Whirlaway; Meet De Boys On The Battlefront by The Wild Tchoupitoulas; The Meters’ Mardi Gras Mambo; Do Watcha’ Wanna’ by The New Birth Brass Band; Fats Domino’s Mardi Gras In New Orleans; Mardi Gras Day by Dr. John and Iko Iko by the Dixie Cups.

For a real feel of what it’s all about, see if you can stream the HBO series “Treme,” set against the aftermath of the Katrina hurricane. It’s chock full of NOLA music and if you’re like me, you’ll be singing “jock-a-mo fee na-nay …”

Basically, Mardi Gras is a day to eat, drink, and burp a lot before settling down the next day for Lent. Iceland probably adheres more closely to the true purpose of this feast day.

They call it Bursting Day where you feast all night on salted mutton and thick pea soup. Then wash it down with a few beers, and by Wednesday you’re so sick you’re ready to give up everything for Lent.

Giving up something for Lent is kind of like making a New Year’s resolution, except that after the required 40 days, you can move on. So, after April 20, you can dig into your stash of chocolate marshmallow Easter bunnies with nary a guilty conscience.

And the head goes first.