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TUESDAY, 30 MAY, 2000, PHILADELPHIA |
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Sepulchritude (oh my, here we go starting with the bloody links already) has received a charming love-letter from the SF Weekly. You can read it here, and that's the only time I will link to it. Except for here, too. If I didn’t already know, work with, and love the Sepulchritude gang, this article would beckon me to search out, ingratiate myself, and attach myself to the hips — the suffering, suffering hips of these people. As is always the case, journalists never quite get the story right, as I’ve found. Take this example: More guests arrive with a very harsh-tasting Portuguese brand [of absinthe]. They flounce about in corsets and bloomers, draping themselves over armchairs, trying to look drawn and desolate, like the woman in Degas’ The Absinthe Drinker, but it’s no good; the party is in full swing. The delicate ritual of absinthe pouring gives way to absinthe martinis and a New Orleans favorite, absinthe and 7UP.Doesn’t that all sound so tragically fashionable? It’s not. Kallistí informs me that the reporter failed to note that Anna, the hostess of this seemingly Gorey-esque soirée, was bedecked in sweatpants, always the height of fashion, and did a spontaneously choreographed interpretive dance to “Magic Man” by Heart. How … not-goth. I should also like to point out, with only a modicum of disappointment really, that your own Marquis was notably omitted from the article. Okay, granted, I’m currently the sole representative of Sepulchritude East, and Californians are dreadful xenophobes in general and, I often think, don’t realise there is any other part of the world that counts, but still, c’mon, don’t be tawkin’ ‘bout my “A 19th Century Ladies’ Afternoon Picnic at the Monster Truck Show” story or my volumes of Lit-Libs without givin’ me props, dangit. Biatch. (He says with an unmistakable grin.) And, for the record, the absinthe & 7UP concoction was, I believe, mine, if I’m not mistaken? And let’s not forget the requisite slice o’ lime, huh? “It marries harmoniously,” slurs your poetic Marquis at a bar in the French Quarter a few years ago, “the 19th and 20th centuries, to mix the two, don’t you find? Shit, I dribbled. Hand me a barnap that hasn’t been written on yet would you dearie?” So wow, what a wacky place to work is a college campus. I must have missed the faculty-staff email that declared today, May 30th, Færie Princess Day, for when I was walking across the lawn to go home, I saw a … a what? A “gaggle”? A “pod”? How ‘bout a “murder” of little færie princesses — little girls in pink tutus with sparklewarkle gold boingy things coming off their heads and waists and everywhere else, migrating like ducks (a “flock”? a “business”?) to some unknown destination, but all in the same direction. 
One of which looked like Weinerdog from “Welcome to the Dollhouse”, all dolled up in her froufy-boingy-boingy tulle and taffeta, hair pulled back in a painfully tight bun, face all lips, thick coke-bottle glasses, one færie princess slipper strap broken and flapping and the poor little awkward duckling worrying her foot in and out of it. Precious. In ten years, she will be one of my readers. May even have a diary of her own online some day. Watch for it.Anyway… “Zounds! A … ‘buttload’ of færie princesses!” I ejaculated. Then driving off the campus, Matt and I were suddenly ensconced in a … “swarm” of minivans filled with a … “pride” of more færie princesses on their way to the Int’l Færie Princess Convention or something. When I see scenes like this, I believe David Lynch, often thought of as a modern day surrealist, is one of the überrealists of our times. Hey, you know what’s funny? 
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