When I was growing up my parents celebrated  Cinco De Mayo as the biggest holiday of the year. Not just the solemn part–when every clear thinking man observes a moment of silence to thank God profusely for preventing the French from taking over Mexico and turning it into Montreal with short brown people and ten times the flies.  Or Algeria with booze and bean farts. No, the day was far bigger than that!

      First off,  it was  my birthday and since my parents faithfully read the LA Times along with their morning gin fizzes they were convinced   it was likely be my last big party day on earth .  Most likely  I would catch polio and die in an iron lung during the first power outage , or just as likely,  be turned into a glowing ember along   with everyone else when the Russian missiles hit.  Therefore, Cinco De Mayo was meant to be  all the holidays wrapped into one.

        As I recall , my parents would wake me and my brothers up early and we’d hunt for chocolate eggs left by a huge rabbit in a sombrero  ;  then we’d go out singing Christmas carols for the neighbors , eat  a big turkey for lunch , down a few  jars of rum and pancake batter—“Aunt Jemima’s  Nig Nog Happy Juice” — and since there were no football games on TV watch an Army training film on how to avoid getting gonorrhea . Finally , in the early evening my parents put a sheets over our heads  and sent us out to beg for candy  .

        It was clean,  wholesome , affordable fun. Unfortunately , many neighbors objected to our  second visit of the day, which tended to be even more boisterous  than our earlier caroling of Good King Wenceslaus and  Feliz Navidad  , especially if we’d taken too  many  Nig Nogs  on board and rolled their lawns with toilet paper. What ensued was predictable . A petition was circulated ,  our parents were reported to the cops who in turn brought in the  social workers who eventually confined  my parents to what we called The  Funny Adobe.  Pointedly , we did NOT  call it  the Asylum  Lunatique  or The Crazy Chalet , which they looked upon as  a victory , of sorts

        But it wasn’t just fun , the day  was also a valuable history  lesson.  How many kids today know that they  could easily  be living in a world where instead of Tacos and Nacho Fries they’d be trying to gag  down  snails fried in garlic at the Escargot Bell? Or can they imagine trying to explain to the people who do the lawn that knife fighting or drunken bouts of grab ass will not be tolerated –in French ! And if even these examples don’t register, force them to watch the everyday scenes  from the Rio Grande  and ask them to imagine how much more appalling it would be if the wetbacks wore flamboyant clothes and extravagant hair styles  and complained incessantly about the service? I’m pretty sure they’ll finally have to agree this country dodged  El  Bullet Grande on Cinco de Mayo