Galveston’s Favorite Sport: Public Intoxication. Time for Mardi Gross Again

Let’s get this out of the way: Mardi Gras is not a culture. It’s a drinking festival with beads.

And Galveston? Oh baby, Galveston does it like it’s a competitive sport called Public Embarrassment.

I call it Mardi Gross—because that’s exactly what it is.

This isn’t celebration. This is a parade of drinking clothes: outfits specifically chosen to be spilled on, sweated through, puked into, and abandoned in a gutter like a bad decision. There are parades, yes…but not for art, music, or joy. These are parades for drinking. Floats exist solely to escort alcohol from Point A to Point Blackout.

The smell alone should be federally regulated.

Beer breath. Body odor. Vomit. Urine. Regret.

The streets turn into a soup…and not the good kind.

And the garbage. Sweet God, the garbage.

Cups, beads, food containers, broken dreams…and somehow the attendees manage to blend right in. It’s like the city puts out a call that says: “Send us your worst!”

No one is saying, “You know what sounds divine? Galveston during Mardi Gras.”

This isn’t a draw—it’s a filter. A very specific one.

The entertainment lineup always feels… tired.

Not legendary. Not iconic. Just familiar in a ‘weren’t you famous once?’ kind of way.

It’s the musical equivalent of clearance rack energy…perfectly aligned with the rest of the experience.

And yes, I’m biased. I’m three years sober, and nothing sharpens your irritation like watching drunk people who think they’re fascinating. They’re not. They’re loud. They’re repetitive. They smell like spilled cocktails and bad choices.

And before anyone says, “Well you drank once!”

Correct. I didn’t dabble. I was a professional alcoholic. I went hard, efficiently, and with purpose. What I did not do was pretend that chaos equals charm.

The best part of Mardi Gras in Galveston is not the beads, the parades, or the parties.

The best part is when it’s over.

When the streets are washed.

When the noise dies down.

When the island exhales and quietly asks, “Why do we keep doing this?”

Thankfully, it happens during a trash month, so at least it doesn’t hold a good season hostage. February can have it. Take it. Keep it.

Mardi Gross isn’t joy. It’s endurance.

And surviving it sober deserves a medal…or at least a very strong coffee.

See you when the last bead hits the ground. That’s when I’ll leave my house again.

Xoxo AB, 💅💄💋