SATURDAY, 8 APRIL, 2000, NEW ORLEANS

Let’s take a little pause now from the boozin’ and socializin’ and gaddin’ about … just for a moment … as the Marquis serenades us with beeyoootiful Beethoven. Don’t you need this brief respite? Lawd knows I do. And, hey, nice fuckin’ piano, what? The li’l certificate dates it 1830. Chopin was, like, 17 or something when this baby was put together. Rachmaninoff was naught but an uncomfortable wriggle in his father’s scrotum. Sigh. Damn thing needs to be tuned like nobody’s bidnith, though. Okay. Where were we? French go-go bar. Yes. Actually, the DJ was French, and thus played lotsa Brigitte Bardot and Vampyros Lesbos trashy go-go music and the like, and the strippers had eyelashes that fanned the crowd when they fluttered them, which was frequently, and huge hair, and languid, “the-devil-may-care-cos-I-sure-as-hell-don’t” moves. Lazy kicks. Slow waggles. Little baby steps in immense platform pumps. Beautiful. Straight outta Russ Meyers, yo. Hhhhhhot! As our gathering disbanded for the evening, some opted for home and sleep; others for more frolicking at the Half Moon bar uptown. I of course escorted some of my lovely ladies thither for wee-hour-morn’ libations. These chicks have created a club for themselves called the Power-Femme-Pussy-Possie. If I am to be their escort about town, does that not make me their pimp? (“You go stand by that pimpmobile, Comtesse!” I ordered brusquely.) I admit I felt rather pimpish last night. Some of my sluttish friends have bethought themselves fit for a one-night-stand with whichever random gentlemen takes their fancy, godblessem, and as is so often the case in these situations, phone numbers on matchbooks are lost, or are copied down incorrectly — as a result, we were in search of a certain gentleman who had backscratched one of the PFPP members a couple of nights ago. She had been on a fruitless quest to track down this amenable gentleman all day, and lo, who should we run into at the Half Moon but Monsieur Obliging, with whom I had a hand in attempting to organise a reunion of sorts, keeping 50% of the monies rendered for myself, of course. Bonjour. Je m’appelle le Marquis Pimpdaddy Stackmoney. All this pimpin’ n’ ho’in takes its toll on a body, and so I have been trying to unwind and relax and still be entertaining by doing my Erotic Nude Solo-Synchronized Swimming Routine in the afternoons for whomever happens to be invading Dr. K__’s yard at the moment. Actually, it’s not very erotic at all. Coming out of a Philly winter, I find that when the sun reflects off my skin, airplanes and birds crash in the sky, and people shield their eyes or simply go blind. I’m no big fan of tanning, but this is ridiculous. I’m so white I’m silver. This morning and early afternoon I helped Kallistí (at left, duh) pack up her U-Haul with all the goodies she left in storage two years ago when we made our mass exodus from New Orleans. “My Barbies!” she squealed at one box, “and my torture books!” at another. I sighed heavily and cursed the 3000 miles that separate our homes, for few people can pull off exclamations like that with equal charm. There is something so diabolically kewt! about Kallistí. She can get away with murder, and have her victim pinch her cheeks out of adoration after the crime has been comitted. Case in point: As we were finishing packing the truck, a farfle of frat boys pulled a truck into the garage effectively blocking the entrance, exit, and all parking spots in the storage building’s facilities. Then they went inside and disappeared. Who among us has patience for being delayed if even for a moment by a frat boy? Not I, says the venemous snake. On the front of their truck was a little stuffed gorilla. Kallistí, annoyed, suggested: “I guess I should paint the gorilla with sparkle make-up. Frat boys hate sparkle. Cover me.” And so I did, watching for frat boys as she applied a Captain Morgan moustache in gold lip-liner glitter to the monkey’s face. And that, in a nutshell, is Kallistí.