THURSDAY, 6 APRIL, 2000, NEW ORLEANS

The first difficulty upon returning to New Orleans is deciding where to stay. This time I called Dr. K__ who lives across the street from my old house in the Lower Garden. Dr. K__ is a master and professor of Hedonism. Things spontaneously happen in his house and yard that could not possibly happen anywhere else in the world. He was the first person Michele, Kallistí and I met when we moved here, sitting friendless on our stoop on Thanksgiving years ago, wondering what a new city would bring us. Well, it brought us Dr. K__ first, who trotted out of his house and introduced himself in his beautiful Missouri/Louisiana drawl and asked us over for a party that was currently in progress. He insisted we treat his house as our own, and over time, we did, pigs that we are, sneaking into his backyard at 4am in the sweltering July nights to go skinny dipping; seducing his paramours which were offered as freely as his whiskey; stealing his car for roadtrips or errands. Oh yes, Dr. K__ was and is the very definition of Southern Hospitality. So when Niki picked Michele and me up at MSY (after a healthy bout of dryhumping at baggage claim of course) we came straight to Dr. K__’s to find an opulent chicken carcass feast laid out on the immense wooden kitchen table and Wednesday’s girlfriend and associated people bandying about the kitchen. “Where do you know all these people from?” I asked. “Hell, I dunno. Found ‘em naked by the pool in the backyard one day,” was the doctor’s reply. For post-dinner entertainment, Girlfriend and her girlfriend performed jaunty bouts of cunny-la-la on the kitchen floor as Dr. K__ (being a trained doctor) told them what they were doing wrong and demonstrated proper techniques as I sat taking notes at the table, awash in memories of days and manners-gone-by. “Now, y’see,” I said, my own drawl creeping back a bit, “this shit just don’t fly in Pennsylfuckingvania. Why did I move?” “Hell if I know,” was Dr. K__’s reponse, “y’all should move back. Stay here for all I care.” The thought of furthering my technological career as cabanaboy seems sweeter and sweeter upon pondering. We leave the good Herr Doktor’s debaucherous estate for the evening and we find ourselves in the Quarter for the long-awaited and much anticipated reunion with scads o’ friends, both from here and a number of which flew out from San Francisco, New York, and other points for a Convergence. Pictures forthcoming, dahlings. To the Shim Sham Club for Bad Goth Night on the balcony amidst a deluge of tears and embraces between your Marquis and a wee fistful of glam-glams who, for their presence on this planet, make life worth living. For a brief moment in time, all four editors of Suffering Is Hip magazine found themselves together — such a very rare occurrence that has only happened once before, briefly, for High Tea at Lyon’s in San Francisco two years ago. The stories flew; renewed avowals of worship flooded the air like the ubiquitous Love + Rockets music coming from the club and the Abita amber flowing freely. The party moved on to The Hideout up Decatur whereat my cherished and fucking stunningly beautiful Patti had her shift last night. Requisite shots of Jameson and other sundry cocktails were consumed. More avowals, laughter and tears. It was a godamned soap opry, I tell ya. Glorious, sad and pathetic all at once. Mordantia Bat had a flight at 5 am this morning, dammit, so we returned around 3:30 to her hotel on Dumaine, raised some hell on the balcony overlooking the Clover Grill on Bourbon and, I gotta be honest here, things get a little fuzzy after that. Vague memories of making out with just about everyone there. I think I ended up “taking a quick snooze” (cha-roit), nestled between the breasts of Bat, not wanting to let her go. It’s really not fair that I only get to see her for five hours this year. Ohwell. Life’s not fair. I awoke around 9:00am this morning in an empty, opulent, crimson room under a gold chandelier, wondering just where the fuck I was! Slowly, I pieced the evening together and realised I had somehow stayed in Bat’s room which, if my calculations were correct, was a room checked-out of already, and perhaps I best be on my way before I was discovered squatting there. Okay — Walk of Shame. Y’all know it, right? If for some freakish reason you aren’t familiar with the term, here it is: Walk of Shame—returning to one’s abode in the glaring light of day, wearing last night’s clothes and runny make-up. I have certainly done the Walk of Shame enough times in New Orleans — it was my very profession for a couple of years — but never so resplendently. My hangover could have been featured in the Smithsonian. Last night’s outfit was black leather pants and a shirt made of mirrors which is really not intended for daylight. I may have caused some traffic accidents as I trundled down Decatur towards Canal, looking for a cab. One never came, by some cruel twist of fate, and I was behooved to make a spectacle of myself in a manner rarely seen before: the Streetcar Ride of Shame up St. Charles back to Dr. K__’s in the Garden District. I sat at the back of the streetcar, picking bits of mascara out of my eyes and trying to wipe away the residu of a thousand kisses with different lipstick. I must have looked like I had bitten into a dozen or so live chickens or rats for the red smudges all around my mouth and face. Upon returning, Herr Doktor and miss Wednesday Girlfriend were just getting up. “WALK OF SHAME!” Dr. K__ greeted me, “here’s your coffee.” It’s about 10:30 now. We sit poolside, hot-tubbing, lascivious stories flying here and there as the beer got iced and chicken soup slurped. Stories to make even your caloused Marquis blush. “I conjure you, Dr. K__, you know this,” I said. “What do you mean?” “The very fact that you exist helps me through so much bullshit in this dull life. WWDr.KD? is a mantra I often repeat to myself.” My hangover was hanging on, so I opted to take a Disco Nap before going out. “If you wake up and want sex, ‘Wednesday’ and I will be in the next room.” “Kay, thanks,” I said as I crashed really, really hard in the suite in the back of the house. I’m glossing over quite a bit here — apologies — I promised Pinch exhaustive details of this week, she having lived on Dumaine for some time. But I am pressed, mes amis, and must fly back to the Quarter to meet with my drunkard, good-fo-nuttin friends who clamour for my presence. I think the dulcet beckoning by the Comtesse Melusine de Nuit on the phone was, “Hurry up you damn pig.” How am I to delay myself for even a moment longer after such a sweet call? More soon…