SUNDAY, 9 JULY, 2000, PHILADELPHIA

Well twirl my turban, man alive, I’ve been busier than a one-armed coat hanger this week, and it’s all the fault of Mlle. Badjuju whose persistent fabulousness spurs me to unplumbed depths of happyfuntime activites and gleeful debauches. I couldn’t possibly list all the happyfuntime things we’ve done over the last two weeks. Some of the highlights however, in no particular order, are last night’s slumber party chez Anita whereat everyone arrived in their jamjams, took a swing at the rhinopiñata until it burst open, spilling forth a plethora of waterguns and squirtybugs. We ran back in the house for a waterfight for a while then settled down to watch (read: heckle) 16 Candles and Breakfast Club. As a “welcome to America” gift, I bought Badjuju a littlegirl pink cotton-poly-blend nightie with sheep and goats on it. I wore my unionsuit with the scandalous buttflap sans knickers. Another slumberer showed up in a showercap and face slathered with cold cream. Michakitten wore her silk satin schwankay pinstripe bachelorslut bedtime wear. And on and on. Other activity: Another task during Badjuju’s legendary visit is the Kitten photoshoot. We have brainstormed up a number of photo montages composed of Badjuju’s stripper identity, “Kitten”, and the trouble she gets into on her “big day out in big bad America”. Walking about Philadelphia, we would find a scene which begged for Kitten. Badjuju would surreptitiously whip off her halter top and zip out of her skirt and before you could say “meow-meow-kitty-meow?”, Kitten would be on the loose, hitchhiking at 30th St. Station, clambouring onto a schoolbus, having a Betty Page tea break with burly construction workers, filling her shopping basket with Summer’s Eve and Vagisil, running from dogs, what-have-you. Then I and the Gentleman Caller who was our propmaster would hand her her clothing which she would wriggle back into and we’d be off to another location. I’m afriad I’m in no position to post the pix as I was merely the drooling, sycophantic photographer. Email Kitten and plead your fandom to her and perhaps she will deign to post them on her site. Or allow me to do so here. Other activity: I have discovered a community pool in Center City that’s actually clean and free! How fucking weird is that? Afterwork unwinding activity is to swim a few laps and bob about in the pool. You must understand I am a fish at heart and have missed being away from Dr. K_’s pool in New Orleans, the beaches of San Francisco or Los Angeles, and other watering holes. My respect for Philadelphia grows continually, and the discovery of this community splashing place blows m’ mind, I tell ya. Other activity: Friday night a bunch of friends and I made a pilgrimage to a cheesey faux-beach-resort frat-hell outdoor nightclub on the Delware River to see the Battle of the Bands and drink $1 Miller Lites amongst the Disneylandesque caves and waterfalls in their cheeseball courtyard. One of the hair-rockin’ bands was Dubbed In English whom I had seen previously and sputtered accolades about here. Once again, they put on a perfectly charming and charismatic show that queerly lent itself very well to the ubiquitous bottles of Miller Lite. This is one of those (very rare) bands whom I will go out of my way to catch their shows. I was flattered to find that the lead singer is one my readers and we had a lovely drunken chat after the show at a local pub about literature and the definition of “culture”. He: Culture is the more pretentious arty-farty attractions of major metropolii like the Louvre in Paris or an opera house or something. Me: Culture (or, more specifically, “Cultcha”) is the peasant villagers in some depressed Eastern European farming community, or a harried waitress with a 120mm menthol Benson & Hedges bitchstick dangling from her mouth barking, “Moah cawfee, hon?” What’s your take? Other Activity: Badjuju and I have collaborated on a comic series called “Doglington Park” for a local rag of a newspaper. We’ve created a couple prototypes and more are in the makin’. In short, mes amis, (yah, when have I ever written anything “in short”?) I have been happily deluged by fabulous, gorgeous people and diverting passtimes without cessation for weeks on end now. I want to fuck all my friends. All at once. I want to marry everyone. I want these days to go on forever. Carly Simon said it best, “these are the good ole days.” I want every day to be a Kitten photoshoot and every night to be a slumber party. I demand perfection.