FRIDAY, 7 APRIL, 2000, NEW ORLEANS

Ohhh, it’s starting to get bittersweeeeet again. And so soon. Pinch and I have discussed how difficult it is to bury the dead — to deal with a return to a city that so inexorably attaches itself to your viscera, like iceberg lettuce in the intestines. I don’t live in New Orleans any more, and by that rite, I should put it to rest, and yet as soon as I forget how things work down here, I come back for a holiday and exhume the dead and the grieving process starts anew. I’ve spent my adult life traveling, living in city after city, looking for a place to call home. I never found it until N’awlins. Not to indulge too far into a dissertation on alienation and “Étrager-itude”, but your own freakish Marquis has never really felt at home — that elusive, proverbially sense of “belonging” — as he did in the Big Sleazy. On the one hand, my job is easy because my job is complete. I found it. Quest over. NOLA = home. How nice to have that checked off my little to-do list. On the other hand, I find at the moment I do not live here, and you know what they say about long-distance relationships. What do they say about long-distance relationships anyway? Ah, I fear my prattles this morning are incoherent. And I have not a whit of hangover upon which to place the blame, having been a good boy last night and drinking straight tonics from venue to venue. Let’s skip the introspection then since it is obvious I am not up to the task of such elucidation. Let’s not bore the unwashed masses. Just the facts, ma’am. ASS! — a coined word from last night, and one that sits pretty on the lips. Ohmy. Did I just say “ass sits pretty on the lips”? I did, didn’t I. Hmm. “ASS!” It was beknighted a new adjective last night, and is a synonym for “COOL!” or “AWESOME!” or “FUCKIN’ A!” or whatever your local dialect equivalent might be. I hereby move to enter it into the current slang lexicon of the free English speaking world. I beseech my 17 readers to adopt it into their own language in this manner: Like: “Oh man, Comtesse, that dress is ASS!” Or: “Kee-ryst, they just played B-52’s back to back with Power Station — this club is ASS!” Or: “Did you see that chick’s corset? ASSALICIOUS!” Or: “New Orleans: Proud to call it ASS!” And for the superlative, please do not use “badass” as that has been overdone. Instead, try: “Did y’all see the prettyboy with the rubber shirt and implausible eyes? He’s BIGASS!” &c. Ahem. On another note, I fear my dreams of turning this into a working vacation are falling through, as usual. The Suffering Is Hip krewe planned on using this rare convergence to outline and brainstorm up a new issue, for the public is so unbearably clamourous about our slow pace of bringing forth new material. Down Spot! Bad doggie! We are far too distracted by cocktails, Abita amber and sparkly-warkly people to get anything really ass down on paper, despite the fact I'm toting my PowerBook about town like a delicious, bleeping, blinking ball & chain. And so, for those who care, I apologise that S.i.H. will continue in its pokey gait of additional volumes. Soz. Cocktails first; brilliance is an ephemeral by-product — maybe. Although, speaking of working vacations, I do have one meeting on Sunday with the owner of the Shim Sham Club on Toulouse which, although a relatively new venue in the French Quarter, has in its short life become the most bigass hangout spot/entertainment magnet in, I dare say, the entire city! House o’ Blues, move yo’ clunky, corporate, flabbyass ovah, bay-bee! Tipitina’s? Just shutthefuckup, aieete? It’s all about the Shim Sham, mm-kay? Besides having a good æsthetic (ass-thetic?) and an interior layout conducive to effective Feng Shui, the weekly roster includes, among other things: Wednesday — Bad Goth Nite. Thursday — 80’s nite. There are other themes, and on the weekends, the managers manage to book the most delicious of bands and entertainment ranging from classic swing to boogiewoogie to industrial to rock n’ fuckin’ roll. Next week, Genitortures, par example. Quel spectacle! And Hadda Brooks? Gracious! The now-octogenarian contemporary of Ella and Billie, et al? She’s still goin’ strong, plays ass piano with a voice like sand and glue, and when not on stage, one can find her at the bar, tooting her whiskey immodestly, snarling at the Quarter-Rats who queue up to worship at her feet and, when feeling particularly saucy, will pole dance for a fee. She also writes cute little things on toilet walls when the mood strikes her as you can see. Innywhey, I am proud of my friends for acquiring such a club and implementing such brilliant conception and having it be so well received. And I am honoured to be chosen as their web designer. Which is what this meeting is about on Sunday. I’m very excited. I get to use my cheesey 50’s clipart, spooky stuff, and crazy fuchsia 80’s art all on one site? What a gay time I will have! I am this far <——> from house-hunting and job-hunting on this trip, such is the magnetism of this awful, beautiful, murderous city upon my tarred and feathered soul. I am to be pitied. And so. Tonight is French Go-Go night at Lee Circle. Portia and b/f fly down from Philly just in time. The Convergence expands. Bacchus is replete.