SUNDAY, 9 APRIL, 2000, NEW ORLEANS

Sleep deficit! I’ve gotten maybe four hours of sleep a night, and despite numerous attempts at napping, every one has failed because there’s too many people to see and not enough godamned time! As yoozh. This is the difference between living in New Orleans and merely visiting New Orleans. When one is visiting, one is either a) a tourist, and there is so much to see in such a short time and 24 hour bars are not conducive to healthy sleeping habits anyway, or b) an ex-patriot of The Big Sleazy, in which case one undoubtably has no less than 47 friends and one-time lovers to embrace and do a shot of Jäger with. When one lives here, it is the antithesis of this harrowing, mile-a-minute pace. “I should really try to get some work done today,” I often said on the front porch to whomever I was stooping with. “Have another julep and a cigarette, darlin’,” is the invariable response. “There ain’t nothin’ to do now that can’t be done tomorrow.” And, before y’all start rolling your eyes and saying, “Too much — that lifestyle can kill ya’,” let me tell you that in any other context, and in any other city, such an invitation (to shirk productivity in favour of a laid-back stoop session) would nauseate me. I’m a busy a person with a lot of simultaneous projects, and such sloth is not generally attractive to me… ‘Cept here, where the pace of life is different, and it is carried out with a certain kind of class and panache that I’m obviously having a hard time describing because y’all are still rolling your eyes. Okay, next subject. So yesterday’s adventures, post - Kallistí - truck - packing, consisted of shopping at freaky clothes shops on Magazine with Trik and Micha. (Ohman, I found the kewliest see-thru shirt made of black thread and dental floss! Good thing I lost 25 lbs. since New Year’s or the effect wouldn’t be nearly as pulchritudinous.) Hang out for early evening, still gathering wits from the last three days of debauchery, then off to the Quarter to see Candace at the Hideout up Decatur St. where they have Toy Dolls and New York Dolls and all sorts of Dolls on the juke. Candace “Li’l Momma” Lamb is one of the underground pillars of society in the French Quarter. She is friend to all, psychoanalyst, voice of reason, grounding device, sounding board and of course makes a damn fine Satan’s Daughter shot when asked. Angelic face framed by well-kept dreads and a good, sturdy, combat-bootish fashion sense which charmingly contradicts her delicate, silverbell voice. Though this city is peppered with people of whom I am solicitously fond and, in many cases, madly in lust with, Candace and a very few others shine above and beyond all. If I were lying in a hospital gurney and teetering on death, I would want Candace there to hold my hand and comfort my departing soul. Not that I have any plans in the near future to be in such a situation, but y’know, ya gotta be prepared for every eventuality… As a pub, the Hideout is a damn good one because one can have charming conversations with strangers at whim. In the case of the Hideout, “the roof constitutes the introduction”. I started talking to Bud last night, who is an apprentice for a performance artist (?!?) on Jackson Sq. He helps ignite spray paint cans and scorch canvas. He has had some mishaps in this field, and all I really wanted from him was to get a picture of his hand in a lovely, thoroughly French Quarter montage. Well, the pot made it into the picture, but the Jäger shot was out of the frame apparently. You get the idea though. Bud: “So, like, first you manipulize [sic] the original paint, then, like, you scorch it and, oh, it’s amazing!” Marquis: “Mmm-hmm, would you just … not move your hand for a moment? Great, thanks.” I stayed there till near-dawn, asked Patti to call me a cab, slithered my way back uptown to Dr. K__’s who had left for a beach house in Mississippi the night before with Saturday’s girlfriend, a perfectly horrendous, mousey, frightened woman from Berlin. I hate her, by the way. Took a “quick snooze” to awake to Dr. K__ coming into the guest suite to check the laundry. “What are you doing back so soon?” I asked, all groggy. “Honey, it’s 3:30,” he smirked and left. “OHSHIT!” I thought, “I was asked to perform one duty as houseguest. Feed the damn cat this morning. I hope it’s okay.” How was Mississippi, Dr. K__? “Awful. 40 degrees and blustery, my business partner is trying out lesbianism with a real ugly tank of a bulldyke, and my German girlfriend is freaked the fuck out at all this. You want a bourbon and lemonade?” “Yes please.” Went to late breakfast (or, okay, dinner — have it your way) with a friend who knows pretty much everyone in town and, when by chance the business partner and portly diesledyke came in, we all greeted and I silently concurred, yes, she is rather gruesome, and if you wanted to try your hand at lesbianism, wouldn’t you try it with someone less farmyard? Well, maybe it’s just me. All right. This is too long already. And I was supposed to use this valuable hour to take a much needed nap. Aren’t I good to my 17 readers to so selflessly forego my biological needs to appease and entertain? And how entertaining can this be to read about anyway? Can anyone care? Hello! Anyone out there? Is this thing on? Tap tap tap. It may be a damn blast to live, but I can’t see that it translates well onto paper. Ohwell. I’m doin’ my best for y’all. Out for one final night of debauching. Adieu.