THURSDAY, 28 SEPTEMBER, 2000, NEW ORLEANS

House hunting is tough work. As you can see. I’d rather be cleaning bidets in a Bulgarian convent by the light of the moon and the phosphorescent walls than have to attend to such rigorous work like house hunting in New Orleans in September on a sunny day at 72°f with a cordless phone by Dr. K__’s pool. Hoo-boy. I’m tellin’ ya. Harrrrd work. Oh yah, bruddah. Actually, to be honest, it has been a rough week. (Pity, party of one, your table is ready.) Psychologically, I don’t like to be homeless. Untethered. Unhinged and unhoused. Remember that scene from “2001:Der Spacen Odysseyum” when the little astronaut man leaves the little asto-pod (“Open the pod bay doors, Hal. Open the pod bay doors, Hal.”) and briefly floats through a few feet of vast and infinite vacuum to glom onto the ship and start tinkering about? This week is the small distance between space-pod and space-ship. It produces weird effects upon my behaviour and psyche. But the quest seems more or less completed. 90% of the houses/lofts/warehouses/lean-to’s/Quonset huts/cardboard boxes in which I have habitated o’er the years have been found immediately and without fuss. And the three L’s of real estate (location, location, location) have made my life somewhat charmed, purely by chance. Take, f’rinstance, my last house in New Orleans on St. Mary street, Lower Garden District. Micha, Kallistí and I had a 24’ truck filled with our belongings freshly carted across Texas and beyond, and my cat living (confusedly) in the cab of the truck (“Are we arrived, daddy?”) while we watched our dwindling savings erode away at a ’spensive hotel while we desperately scrabbled for a place to live. First place we looked at: St. Mary St. “Thistle do nicely!” we proclaimed with the madness only the homeless can convey. And it was that choice (or forced hand) that led to the evolution of our new lives in N’awlins. Our friends and neighbours and workplaces and local pubs and such. Life would have been drastically different if we were in another house, even a block away. And I fancy that life wouldn’t have been as rich. First house is a charm, is what I’m trying to tell y’all. But I have the luxury this time of really searching for a place. So I’ve done drive-by’s of about 50 houses, apartments, condos, villas and scrap heaps around New Orleans. Taken walk-thru tours of a few handful that passed my not-too-picky test. All the while, I suppose my mind was subconsciously set on the first place I saw — the only place that made me want to frotterise a lamp post while moaning, “Love it! Love it! Love it!” Still I went on looking. More options = better options, after all. And a week later, as I am worn down and broken and miserable and beaten and battered (as the above picture should attest), I finally come to land upon the First House again, after much logistical banter and phone J/O sessions with Melusine who entrusted me to find us a place here. First house is a charm. Voilà mon nouveau château, les enfants. In the heart of Ye Olde Garden District, one block off Magazine. We are brushing elbows and sharing garbage pick-up with Anne Rice four streets away, and that gloomy little monster Trent Reznor two blocks down. It’s not entirely finalised yet, but I did meet the owner last night, filled out formy-poohs, faxed one to Melusine in San Francisco, made little renter/landlord quibble deals, set a move-in date, and all that rot. I foresee no impediments. (If one crops up, I’m gonna be pisssssed off and y’all will hear about it!) And so I am doubly jubilant today. 1) Found myself and my dear friend a goh-juss home and 2) quest completed, travails over, I can kick back at Dr. K__’s pool and tend to erasing my tan line with a clear conscience. Actually, heh heh, “quest completed” is not quite le mot juste. Part one of about ten arduous tasks is completed. Must fly back to Philly next week, find me a fat truck, pack it (me back’s knackered just thinking about the piano!), drive back through the Carolinas et al, unpack, move in, settle in, start work, oh so many tasks, sweetie, tasks! But I suppose that’s all just busywork. The one thing that was really hassling my buzz seems pretty much bagged up. So hi, how are you?