Lent is here, which means that Semana Santa and Easter are looming just over the hump of the calendar. All of which means that we should talk about the curious Mexican custom of blowing things sky high.
While this may not seem like a logical thought progression, bear with me for a moment.
Having quite recently had my pants accidently set afire while attending an annual October festival in Oaxaca, I've been thinking a lot more about Mexican fireworks lately. I don't mean the 4th-of-July kind, but the everyday, let's-blow-up-something-big, fireworks festivities that Mexicans everywhere routinely enjoy. The ones that have been putting shrinks out of business south of the border for centuries. Let me explain.
In Oaxaca City, for example, they celebrate the relatively obscure religious feast of "The Lord of the Lightning" by seeing if they can set the city, the cathedral - and each other - on fire. Thousands turn out in the town square to watch elaborate fireworks displays in the shapes of bulls, turkeys and Spanish ladies. Nothing odd about that, you say. Ah, but these creations are carried on the heads of brave (and certifiably crazy) young men who charge through the crowd sending off flaming, twirling, zinging, bazooka-like fireworks parts in all directions, basically singeing or incinerating anyone too slow. (I should add that the very helpful Oaxacan city police all carry fire extinguishers during festivals.)
After hours of surging with the screaming crowd, and hop-scotching M-80s as they whiz past head and heels, high and low, the festivities conclude with a huge fireworks castle set off on the front steps of the cathedral and with the entire facade of the building set ablaze in a climactic cascade of fire that falls from the roof.
At this point the crowd is definitely exhilarated. Invigorated. Energized. And in very little need of psychiatric attention. Whatever cravings for kicks that might have otherwise spawned axe-murders or road rage that night have definitely dissipated for awhile. Blown away, Mexican-style, you might say.
It's possible that Mexico may have bypassed the whole costly and arduous business of psychoanalysis by discovering the selective use of fireworks. And there are many applications. Almost every city, town and pueblo in the state of Oaxaca uses the Adrenalin Technique, which is similar to being under heavy mortar fire in a war and does tend to make one quickly forget any unresolved childhood angst. Mexican cities further north, on the other hand, use the Scapegoat Technique.

To kick off pre-Lent Carnaval, an entire town may turn out to abuse villainous, papier-maché Mal Humor, whose name translates to "bad mood." Year after year, the luckless Mal Humor is hoisted on high and paraded through the streets while everybody trots along, yelling at him for all the ka-ka in their lives. "Mal Humor, you jerk! You son of a cactus worm! It's your fault I'm so fat!" "It's your fault my carburetor is full of gunk!" "It's your fault my mother-in-law is coming to live with us!" And with that, poor Mal Humor goes up in smoke. Poof goes the bad guy. Poof go the guilt feelings. Let Carnaval begin!
Which brings us to Easter---and Judas. Every Sabado de Gloria, the Holy Saturday before Easter, Mexico resounds with the sounds of exploding Judas piñatas. "Judas, you rat-fink! You're really a bad guy!" KA-BOOM! And with simple, five-dollar, piñata therapy a nation kisses off 2000 years of religious hostility. In a flash, so to speak.
No wonder shrinks are almost extinct in this guileless culture where fireworks are legal and fun is the national sport. Got a problem? Pack it in a piñata and whack its bottom off. Or just harmlessly blow it away as easily as we once did the silvery dandelions of our youth.
There's a lop-bottomized Judas piñata hanging from the telephone wires in front of my auto mechanic's shop right now. He's given me a laugh every time I've passed since last Easter.