It’s that time of the year again. The weather has cooled and, uh, un-cooled; bakeries have ordered non-flammable babies of the plastic persuasion en masse; and all around what’s left of the Greater New Orleans area, metal viewing stands have sprung up, signaling the start of the Carnival season, or “the Mardi Gras” to some people. Which brings me to my first point.

It’s Mardi Gras, plain and simple. There’s no “the” attached. Arthur Hardy doesn’t publish an annual guide to “the Mardi Gras.” Are we catching on? OK. Say it with me: I will not call it “the Mardi Gras” unless next year I want to read the incessant rambling of a cantankerous Yat who obviously has a little too much free time on his hands now that Bucktown has been wiped out. Now that we’re on the same page, let’s move on, shall we?

You will undoubtedly be hosting some of your friends for a few days to celebrate the season. That’s good. Mardi Gras is something everyone should and can enjoy. The keyword here, though, is everyone.

So do everyone a favor: If any of your friends are planning to come down for Mardi Gras to make their small-screen debut some months from now on a late-night infomercial (don’t act like you don’t know the one I’m talking about), keep them in the French Quarter where brief public nudity for beads isn’t really tolerated but more acceptable. Maw maw and the grandkids are out to have a good time, but not the same kind as Susan from Oklahoma State who got a little too friendly with Jim Beam and/or gentleman Jack. Keep it clean where there are little ones around.

And speaking of kids, it really isn’t cool when a 20-something-year-old student-athlete from Penn State plants himself in the first row of a crowd, only to hog the throws from the passing floats as maw maw and the grandkids, the locals nonetheless, get the shaft. Do you know what it looks like when someone who could easily crush me with his pinky catches a small stuffed bear and hops up and down excitedly? That’s not the BCS crystal football, ace. Be classy, get out the way and let the kids catch something. Oh, and give them that stuffed bear.

If you’re really desperate for beads, you can always buy them at various French Quarter gift shops, but I’ll echo the theme of this column again: Don’t do that. For less than what it costs to buy a six-pack, you can actually buy a whole box of beads from a Mardi Gras supply warehouse as opposed to one strand. Speaking of what not to buy, save the money and don’t get a Cat in the Hat-style stovepipe hat.

This point should go without saying, but I’ll mention it anyway. Don’t go to the bathroom outside. Sure, New Orleans is shaped like a bowl — much like the shape of a traditional repository, in fact — but it’s not a big bathroom. Garbage cans, back or frontyards, a block off the parate route: none of these is a bathroom. It doesn’t take a whiz to figure out where you can go and where you can’t go.

Contrary to what Benny Grunch says, there is somewhere to pee on Mardi Gras day. That place isn’t outside, though.

I know it sounds like I’m preaching here. You want Mardi Gras to be a good time, a time where you can cut loose and do whatever. That’s fine; that’s the way it should be. New Orleans is laying out the welcome mat for the world. Don’t cross the threshold and be “that” guest.

I’ll try and be hip for a minute. I know, I can hear the laughter. Remember that guy Meatloaf? Good. Let’s modify one of his great hits.

Sing along: “Yes, I would do anything for beads, but I won’t do that.”