Wow, so thaaat was a fun night, huh? Halloween in New Orleans is kinda the only place any sane person should want to be. I decided not to wear my black mesh naked boy outfit because, well, I was feeling shy. (Snicker, giggle into hand, bat lashes, blush, kick table leg, take nitroglycerine for heart palpitations, tee-hee-hee.)
Instead we have the look on the left which I was calling the “Stepford Wife Run Over By A Truck / Twiggy Ramirez” look. I could really have made the outfit come together if I could have managed to find a grocery cart filled with Pop Tarts, toilet paper, Tampax and cleaning supplies to push down crowded Decatur Street.
Some clubs and bars have “no grocery cart” policies however. Meanies.
Started the evening at the ShimSham where Katzen and The Enigma were doing a scary sword-swallowing, Jim Rose Circus type show.
I chose to wear the Puzzle Dress for this show, since The Enigma is famous for being tattooed with blue puzzle pieces all over his body. Not to mention the dress is something one might have seen on Tina Louise in “Stepford Wives” and thus went with the theme.
Okay, you remember The Enigma in that X-Files episode where he eats a live fish and cockroach and stuff and runs around grunting and drooling and acting like a frightening animal? Well, I have never had a conversation with anyone more well-spoken and amenable than with him last night. “Good evening, yes, absolutely, let us take a picture, Katzen darling, would you come here for a moment dear? I very much like your dress, yes that is simply charming…” Etc. I laughed.
I had borrowed the dress from Melusine. Which is a really funny thing to think about considering there’s almost a two foot height difference between us, and we still manage to swap clothes just like the good housemates we are. Household harmony. Ahhh…
Went trolling about French Quarter bars, looking at lovely costumes on the people out, and avoiding sloppy, disgusting, meaty frat boys who have no concept of the physical space they take up on this terra firma.
Melusine has posed the important question on a number of occasions: How much glitter is Too Much glitter? The answer, I have discovered: Sparkly beads on a frat boy is too much glitter.
Melusine wanted to dance. “Fag clubs?” I suggested. Her aqua-rimmed Jodie-Foster-From-Taxi-Driver eyes lit up.
“Fag dancing! Let’s gooo!”
So we went to the faggiest spot on earth: St. Anne/Bourbon St. clubs and boogied to the 87 minute mix of Madonna’s “Ray of Light.” We could have stayed longer but they started playing that generic “Black Woman Sticking Finger In Light Socket And Singing For White Queens” music that always leaves us so nonplussed. (That music is technically called, “Dance, Dance, Faggit, Faggit” music.)
So we trundled home somewhat early — work today n’ all.
This morning I spent approximately 45 minutes in the bath with about half a bottle of conditioner in my hair and a stiff brush, combing out the teased up-do damage which I had administered to myself last night to get that “hit by a train” look that is so in season just now.
I winced and made little moany noises in the tub, maybe cried a little, and 45 minutes later when my oh-so-healthy hair was straightened again, I cleaned the comb and threw enough hair into the toilet to knit a kitten.
Fashion hazard. Can’t complain. If it doesn’t hurt, you’re not doing it right.
Hmmm, this axiom may be applied to any number of life’s little trials now that I think about it.
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