We have to get ourselves into some kind of shape to get to Louisiana. There are so many things to pack: raingear, the tropical medicine kit, satellite phone, rescue beacons, butter-scented cologne, and the stacks of cash to purchase the weapons we will need and the baksheesh we will have to pay to get through the numerous layers of bribery surrounding even the simplest of actions in Lousiana. (Average cost of public urination: $7 in NOLA, $4 in Baton Rouge, encouraged in Shreveport and free!)
There is no sense in trying to keep this game in proportion. The drama of whether a concussed Tim Tebow starts or not will become a sideshow, a pitiable afterthought the instant the Four Corners Salute hits the crowd at Tiger Stadium. The horns hit, the bourbon in the bloodstream and natural hysteria in the air combusts, and for a solid ten seconds or so everything in the stadium levitates and vibrates against the inky backdrop of what, with the lights of the stadium at full shine, appears to be jungle-level darkness. The noise is a howl, a disconcerting, blood-curdling and exhilarating ruckus of a festive boozy hell. It will and should take the top of your goddamn head off the first time you hear it.
Surround it with a purple and gold-clad Mardi Gras on the move, and there is quiet literally no place on the planet we'd rather be this weekend. We will see you there, documenting the daylight madness during the day. Then night falls, and the world gets set on vibrate for three hours or so. Let's throw some gas on it, cover it in Christmas lights, set the whole thing on fire and see what happens.
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