The Marquis’ Intimate Diary

THURSDAY, 20 JANUARY, 2000, PHILADELPHIA
Snowday! Snowday! The first snow of the season is always fabulous. It’s damn late this year though. January 20th? Hell, spring’s almost here. I don’t know if I should put on cashmere gloves, or go to the beach.

Cashmere gloves. It’s never a good idea to go to the beach. Sun is bad for you. It makes you tan. Tan is so 80’s. And not in a good way.

I’m glad I’m not the only one that feels this way anymore. About how stupid tanning is. There’s a silly tanning salon in downtown Philly that I often drive or walk by. I have never seen a client in it, and the shopgirl is always bored, reading a magazine or, once, snoozing on the ultra-mo-dairn divan.

Snowday! I’m not at work today. Actually, I called in sick before I even knew it was snowing. I felt absolutely poisoned this morning after a not-too-terribly-debaucherous evening last night at a drag show. In fact, I specifically kept myself under control because I didn’t want to miss any more work this month. See what too much glitter can do? I am poisoned.

Bt fruebd abd U dud ga…

Whoops. Lost the home keys there for a minute. Take two:

My friends and I had a gay time poking fun at a particular drag queen whose make-up was more clown-like than draghag. “Someone’s been eating too many powdered donuts!” observed Patrick.

“Ooo, smelly clown,” pooh-poohed Rory.

“Everyone hates a mime!” I opined to the world.

Whipped Cream Snow ChickSnowday! I’ve been sitting at the window, staring out, getting lost in the soft, silent folds of the snow in the yard and on the street, drinking lots of citrus and trying to detox.

Poufy, soft, whispery folds of snow always remind me of that picture of the chick on the Herb Alpert album cover — you know, the one that got you so very hot when you were 7, whether you were a boy or girl? Yah, that one.

She was, like, a totally bitchin’ hot chick n’ stuff, y’know? Like, totally do’able?

Yah.

Snowday!