Ever feel like Sisyphus? I’m taking a short break from the queue of annoying people who are coming to see me with annoying questions fabricated solely to annoy me. I need to focus on happier days, on more calming thoughts.

Defining Moments. For a while now, I have been searching for Defining Moments of my friends. Patti’s was the electro-shock pole. Debbie’s is the Dominique Dunne game. These two succinct anecdotes sum up each of these people to perfection, capturing their capabilities, their chutzpah and their subtleties.

Over dinner with Michele and Patrick the other night, I brought up the Defining Moment game, and attempted to pigeonhole each of them. They, in turn, looked for a story that encapsulated everything I was about, and came up with this story, which I am telling because it's distracting me from odious work that I care not a whit to accomplish just at the moment…

The Voice of Reason Setting, French Quarter, Bourbon Street, hot night. Friends from San Francisco in town. “Southern Decadence” is in full effect, yo — rainbow flags and flouncy boys abound. The drinking is heavy; the chatter is light. Group of six or so stumble down to Monaghan’s, a then-cool hangout off Bourbon. Marcy workin’ the back bar. Drinking continues. Debauch, debauch, debauch. These are the Cliff’s Notes, y’unnerstan.

Kallistí sifts through her wallet and finds several tabs of acid dating from god-knows-when. She moves that the party ingest the treats. The party, however, is 3–8 sheets into the wind, and doubts its own deductive reasoning skills.

“Should we?” “Shouldn’t we?” “I’ve never done this before.” “Now’s no time to start.” “Sure it is.” “I just don’t know.” “C’mon, Brian’s in town.” “I’m so confused.” &c.

Eventually someone suggests consulting the Marquis. “You’re the Voice of Reason, Marquis. Should we all do acid?”

The Marquis appears to consider the moral, physical and psychological implications of this suggestion carefully, taking into consideration the hour, the venue, the loopy state of the querants — in short, it was an Educated Moment.

“I believe the acid is good for the taking,” he decrees, and tabs are handed out and popped into mouths.

Once holding his tab, the Marquis realises he has no interest at all in doing any acid tonight, but to be polite rips off half and pops it into his mouth, giving the other half to Marcy, the amiable barwench.

Everyone suffered. Michele most of all, muttering balefully, “I want to go home! I want to go home!” Once home, her then-boyfriend informed her, “Honey, you are home…” “No, San Francisco,” she bewaled.

The next morning, people attempt (and fail) to put the pieces of the night together, while the Marquis is relatively unscathed and intact, having exercised a bit of prudence at the last moment.

“Why did you make us take the acid!?” the question was posed.

The Marquis shrugged nonchalantly. “Why the hell did you ask me anyway?”

“Because you’re the voice of reeeeason!”

“And let that be a lesson to you.”

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The next day I felt behooved to write a Letter of Apology to Marcy, who technically was our hostess when things got weird and I started flinging Michele into the video poker machines at Monaghan’s. The Reader will realise that the words “Letter” and “Apology” are not often used in Louisiana, and I may have been the first person to ever put the two together.

For your delictation-or-whatever, I have located the original epistle and reproduce it here:

Laborous Day, 1 September, 1997

Mí Querida Marcella:

Just a quick note to express my apologies, humiliation and mortification at my silly-ass behaviour the evening-last on the off chance you were offended, annoyed or eye-rolling. In retrospect, trying to cover up my drunkeness when responding to your concerned query, “Marquis, are you okay?” by standing silently, making faces then walking into the wall was probably not the most efficient lie I have ever executed.

Whoever told me that taking acid whilst already fucking annihilated was a good idea needs to be excommunicated from the earth — oh wait, that was my idea. Nevermind. I thank you for sharing my portion and thus reducing the already considerable woes of the following day. I hope you at least enjoyed your ride, such as it was.

I’m writing since I won’t be in the Quarter tonight due to my puffy and swollen ankle that I managed to procure for myself when I was feeling frisky and twirled Michele in the air, landed wrong, and broke my fall by gingerly pushing over a 200 lb. video crack machine. Mssr. Matt asked me rhetorically, “Do you even know how long it’s been since someone’s done that?” My blushes begin anew, and ‘aubergiene’ is the word best suited to describe the hue of my foot.

I was such a tired, filthy mess last night that I believe I might almost have resembled some of your regular customers in action, y por eso, lo siento. I much prefer to be the stolid pillar of sanity and reason. I guess watching all that felatio further up Bourbon rocked my world a little too far. Let’s just put this behind us, shall we? Way, way behind us?

(…or maybe it was simply all the vodka.)

Please pass my sentiments on to Matthew, if you would be so very kind. My shame covers worlds today.

your sycophantic l’il myrmidon,
m.d.d.

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