Boogie avec le Marquis le Marquis’ Intimate Diary

FRIDAY, 17 NOVEMBER, 2000, NEW ORLEANS
Glum, glum, glum.

Grump, grump, grump.

No very good reason for it. I think it’s just “that time” for your sparkly-warkly Marquis. Boys get PMS too, y’know. Don’t think you’ve cornered some special little market, crabby ladies. For the lads, it’s twice yearly — and twice as bad.

I’ve been left drained, emotionally and physically, from a rather large fête of friends and fambly last week who all flew into N'awlins to celebrate a spontaneous and completely made-up holiday. And I’ve learned one vital thing from that week of organising, taxïng, gadding about, dining and drinking: Martha Stewart, I ain’t!

I can’t organise a solo trip to the hardware store on a lazy Saturday, much less An Event with scads of out-of-towners.

I suck.

But that’s all over. Only guest left in town is the gorgeous miss Badjuju and she’s just a sheer pleasure. Indulged your crap-attitude Marquis today with a slow day at home watching tapes of “Kids in the Hall” and going out to see “Best in Show” at the theatre.

Now comes the time that has been looming for a while now like a buried bill on the coffee table. The icky part of life. The brussel sprouts section in my little dîner de ma vie. I have spent the last six months saving, planning, packing, driving, moving, unpacking, settling in, entertaining, and organising. All this without any real steady source of income beyond the odd freelance job I take when I can squeeze it in the schedule.

Your Marquis is about to become dangerously disenfranchised. From prince to pauper. Riches to rags. Eliza Doolittle, I understand you now, girlfriend.

Yah, I’ve got job leads, of course, but the whole process of looking for a job is the worst job there is. It makes me sneer and want to jump under the covers and unplug the phone and bite the cat in frustration.

But nobody wants to hear about such ignoble mundanities as these.

What can you do to get the Marquis back up to scratch, writing pithy prose and entertaining the fuck out of you again on a bi-daily basis?

I’m glad you asked.

All it takes is an email from you, a stamp, and 30 seconds of your time: The email to get my address, the stamp for obvious reasons, and 30 seconds to write a nice big fat cheque.

Although professionally I’m a web designer/programmer/master, I’m thinking it might be fun to diversify.

I think I’d like to be a male prostitute.

Don’t look so shocked; we all whore ourselves for our daily crusts. Why not be honest about it — call a spade a spade — and get some sex thrown into the bargain, eh?

Lots of wealthy tourists pass through New Orleans in search of a tour guide and fuck puppet.

Ever want to get nailed by an actual marquis? Now’s your chance, you sex muffins!