Fake French: it's not just for Le Tigre.

Geaux Saints! 31-17 + Lombardi Gras = the Saints ain’t the Aint’s neaux meaux! Yeah you right.

No one is more surprised than me that, given my lifetime of avoiding sports of all kinds, I’m really enjoying all of this Saints-win-the-Superbowl stuff. Hell, even my parents are excited – my parents, who gave me my aversion to all things athletic in the first place.

There’s just such a purity about this particular celebration. There’s no “in your face” or smack talking about whatever the hell team it is that we beat. It’s all just, “We love the Saints, we love Drew Brees, we love New Orleans!” (How amazing was that photograph of Brees and his son?) For a people who not even five years ago were brought to the lowest they’ve ever been, I can’t tell you the good it does my heart to see shot after shot of crowds of New Orleanians exuding true joy. One of my friends was in Miami for the fateful event, and of course was back in town for the parade, and has been tweeting about it regularly. His posts are hilarious. “To the rest of the country: sorry about the snow. It’s a side effect of hell freezing over.”

New Orleans has always been a place with such a great appreciation for its own culture, its own greatness. Not in a boastful way. Just in a “New Orleans: Proud to call it home” way. Or “proud to crawl home” way. Or even “proud to swim home” way. These people have a fierce love for their town that is utterly unrivaled. It’s kinda beautiful.

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