If you're looking for a little debauchery tonight, let the beads set you free. Downtown Boise ain't exactly Bourbon Street, but the revelers who do head Downtown take their partying seriously. (Boise's nudity ordinance? Not so much. See "read more" below.)

Before we get to the juicy stuff, here's the scoop on tonight's events: We've pulled together this guide to a few Fat Tuesday hot spots. It has all the details about the usual players such as China Blue and its cousin down the street Main Street Bistro, as well as Hannah's and newer contenders such as Fatty's.

If you're hungry, there's also a Mardi Gras Buffet from 4:30 to 9:30 p.m. at Jaker's Bar and Grill in Meridian with everything from shrimp creole to steamed crawdads.

But, seriously, let's try to answer the question that's on all the sinners' minds: Can there really be such a thing as Mardi Gras in a city that bans breasts?

I set out to find the answer in Downtown Boise several years ago. Here's that Scene column (which I clearly remember having a ball writing):

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Can there really be such a thing as Mardi Gras in a city that bans breasts?

Public nudity isn't allowed in Boise. We have a city ordinance that says so. Heck, Idaho lawmakers are even considering making it illegal for hungry babies to glimpse Mommy's nipples.

What does that mean for revelers on a Fat Tuesday?

That, dear reader, is what investigative reporters are for.

Notepad in one hand, Corona in the other, I had a civic duty to perform. It's commonly accepted that proper celebration of Mardi Gras requires an exchange of beads and flesh flashing. So early in the day, I phoned Boise police spokesman Rich Wright. I wanted to know if the cops had a strategic plan to thwart this potential ta-ta travesty.

Between snickers, Wright explained that police would be concentrating on underage drinking, fighting and drunk driving.

Busting busts would not be a priority.

"Keep in mind we also must have a signed complaint from someone complaining about a nudity order violation, or an officer must witness the violation himself, " Wright explained.

"We don't anticipate we'll be taking many signed complaints from people in the crowd, " Wright added.

Sure enough, when I got downtown that night, Brent Coles was nowhere to be found.

But there were bead-covered freaks everywhere. Four police cars, a mobile command unit and a fire engine blocked Main Street between Sixth and Capitol.

I strolled up to a couple of cops.

"Seen any bare breasts?"

"I have not, " the first one said.

Seen any women wearing beads?

"Yes, I have, " the other said.

Well, isn't that like seeing O.J. wearing a glove and carrying a bloody knife?

"Let's not go there, " the first officer said, grinning. "Let's avoid making that analogy."

Down the street, firefighters wore bead necklaces over their uniforms. I shuddered: What exactly did they do to get those? I hate when dudes drop trou on Mardi Gras.

"Some guy actually came up and gave them to us, " a fireman claimed. "I swear."

Right, pal. Just keep those fire-retardant pants on. But I had to ask: Seen any nudity-ordinance violators?

"One of our off-duty guys said there was some action in the (Main Street) Bistro, " the fireman offered.

I'd heard the Bistro was the place on Fat Tuesday. But there was no way I would be patient enough to get into that bar.

It was 11 p.m., and a ridiculously long line snaked down the sidewalk. Same with Hannah's and Tom Grainey's. Apparently, some newspaper clown wrote an article last week about nightclub safety, so the fire department was suddenly getting all anal about legal capacity.

"This is all hilarious, " scoffed my friend Cameron, a Louisiana transplant serving as official Mardis Gras consultant. "There's a line all the way down the street because every male between 21 and 26 is out to POTENTIALLY see naked breasts."

But would the potential ever be realized?

I decided to hit the Cactus Bar. Cameron went to Pengilly's.

I wasn't armed. I had decided that, as a journalist, I had to remain objective. I could observe what occurred when beads were exchanged, but I could not cause news to occur by handing out beads myself.

When I explained this to a former romantic interest I'd spotted, she grabbed the nearest woman and said, "Will you flash him?" Before I could stop it, the sin was complete, no beads required.

When the flasher had lowered her shirt, I swooped in with a burning question: How could you do that when Boise has a nudity ordinance that specifically prohibits such evil?

"It didn't cross my mind, " she shrugged.

I practically ran next door to Pengilly's to share my breakthrough experience: Yo, Boise was almost like New Orleans.

Cameron was talking to a female friend. "I don't think anyone knows why Mardi Gras exists, " Mr. Louisiana was philosophizing. "Mardi Gras exists because it's a Catholic deal ... ."

... blah, blah, blah. I could hear a history lesson about Lent or Ash Wednesday or something else that had nothing to do with exposed skin. My eye was on a blond hauling herself up onto the bar. As the crowd roared, she stood and lifted her shirt for a full one ... two ... three ... four seconds.

"That works! That works!" a man behind me exclaimed in ecstasy.

Once again, I craved post-game analysis: Why did she just do that for a bar filled with hooting strangers? All she got was a bead necklace with a battery-powered Captain Morgan medallion.

"But it was lit-ted, " Holly, 26, slurred to me, pointing at the trinket. "I really wanted this one. Captain Morgan is my friend."

Hey, I'm your friend, too. Pay no mind to the reporter's notepad.

"I took tomorrow off, " Holly added proudly. "I didn't even know it was Mardi Gras. I just wanted to go out."

Holly was impressing me.

But there was no topping her topless display, so I slipped back to the Cactus. Next to the wall, a grinning man who eagerly identified himself as Nate, 23, was filming women with a hand-held video camera.

His operation was remarkably efficient: Friends in the bar would comb the crowd in search of participants. Big Nate would then dangle the bead bait in front of the victim. When the buzzed breast owner took it, he filmed the result.

"I'm like the Don King of the 'Girls Gone Wild' world!" Nate shouted over the jukebox.

"I love this night!" he continued. "It's so funny. You get a girl any other night and you're going, 'I got $3, let me see your tits, ' and she'll slap you. But tonight, they'll show you their tits for beads that cost three bucks!"

Three bucks? Those must be some stylin' beads, Nate.

I thanked him and put the cap on my pen. My job was done.

I'd seen two flashers and heard talk of dozens more. I'd talked to a guy with a video camera who claimed to have even filmed "six or seven freebies." And I'd seen zero nudity ordinance busts.

I now possessed a complete understanding of the Fat Tuesday tradition in Boise.

When I woke up the next morning, I had my own mysterious string of beads around my neck. I have no idea how they got there.

But you know, I'm thinking somebody just came up and gave me those beads.

I swear.

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