MONDAY, 10 JULY, 2000, PHILADELPHIA

I stand vigil on the tarmac, waving my American flag at a departing plane… Whew. That was fun. Two weeks of Badjuju in the U.S. of fuckin’ A does wonders for a boy’s complexion. I’m quite aware that the only thing duller than listening to someone bitch and moan about their life is to hear someone prattle on about how good their life is. At the risk of nausiating my more mopey, self-indulgent-auto-loathing readers, I hereby confess that I am one lucky mo-fo for the friends I have accumulated throughout the years all over the globe. Convenient toy, this “internet” thing. Sex, career, entertainment, creative projects, surrogate familes wherever I may be living and sex are just some of the perks I have reaped by meeting people online then turning them from IIF’s into actual fleshly personages. General global consensus is that ‘tis “creepy” to meet IIF’s in person — that one has no guarantee that an IIF might not turn out to be an axe-wielding homunculoid pigdogtroll with a harelip and halitosis, and while this is a very real concern, and the icky people : cool people ratio is decidedly slanted towards the “icky” in these godless times, I will continue to argue that meeting new friends via IIF’s is the best way to cultivate a charming and diverse côterie. Think about it, aieet? Think how well you get to screen people via a several-month email correspondence. You get a complete psychological profile if you know how to read between lines. After, say, four months, if I am still corresponding feverishly with an IIF, I can be reasonably sure that said person would turn out to be just as enchanting in RealTime™ as they are in eTime®. Badjuju excelled and has captivated the hearts of all Philadelphia women and the loins of all Philadelphia men — the straight ones anyway — of which there are precious few — so scrap that last part. Never before have I driven someone to the airport and stayed with them for hours until their flight boarded, but this afternoon I ditched work early to perform this unique service and we two had a marvy time sitting in the concourse lounge with my PowerBook writing more Doglington Park episodes. I do love a project. A warm, titillating farewell embrace that could have lingered for days, but neither of us are ones for clammy goodbyes, and she is discharged down the fallopian airline ramp to the womb of her plane where she will curl, egg-like, incubating for hours until she is excreted onto Parisian soil briefly and … where the fuck am I going with this metaphor? Ahem. Point being, I am quite bereft, and life is dull without a Kitten in the house. Chopin said it best on his deathbed when he scrawled this shakey note in pidgin French: “This cough may choke me. I adjure you now to have my body opened, so that I shall not be buried alive.” Chopin pretty much did everything best, but that topic’s for another day, goslings. In other news, the Marquis is soon to make some life alterations by quitting his job and traveling for a while. (First stop, Edinburgh to see how Kitty prances on her own turf.) Then perhaps a train about Europe to “take the air”, then back to the states for Seattle, San Fran mayhap, New Orleans to start lining up work, then back to Philly where I can save a little more moanay-moanay and start devising my move back down to Louisiana and … oh, just lots going on, chirren. Daddy will have many a fireside chat with you about it soon. Now say your prayers ("I want bigger tits/cock/bankroll") and go to bed. You’ve been good kiddies today and the spankies can wait until tomorrow.