First off, thanks to those who sent naked pictures of themselves to me as I asked the other day.
But frankly, I’m a little disappointed at the turnout. C’mon, gang, I’ve showed my stuff for y’all (sorta) here, here and here.
And let’s not forget this arousing naughty bottom-boy shot, eh? (“Mommy! I want sexy leather pants!” Be careful what you wish for, little marquis.)
So come on you. Get out of those clothes and into some flattering light and send ‘em on this-a-way. I’m not going to ask you again.
Right. ‘Nuff sed.
So Thanksgiving holiday in New Orleans. Yah. What about that. Melusine and I threw a thing at our newly-christened “Château Bimbeaux” in the Garden District. Marcy came over to cook down a coupla birds we bought the day before. Patti brought salad, greenbean casserole, other stuff. Other fabulous people brought homemade mac + cheez, choco-peanut-butter pie (thanks Candace!), homemade crab-stuffed ravioli, fresh bread, fresh stuffing, and lots and lots and lots and lots of booze.
Know what’s fuckin’ good? Mulled wine is fuckin’ good! Thanks Melusine!
Know what’s not good? Drinking mulled wine, followed by cran-Finlandia screwdrivers, followed by cans of Budweiser, followed by pink champagne, followed by more wine, followed by a shot of whiskey, a shot of vodka, and an absinthe and soda, then going out to a nightclub for a drink because you’re “thirsty” or whatever.
It’s been a rough day as a result. Rang up Dr. K__ and asked him to turn his jacuzzi on. It’s a Water Day — one of those times in one’s life when all one wants to do is rehydrate; drink gallons of herbal tea and ginger ale and take eight showers and soak in a hot tub.
I feel like Marquis jerky.
But damn, was it worth it? Guess it was. Twenty or so people all having a fabulous time in my ‘umble château, Melusine playing Birthday Bitch and workin’ that turntable with all the Romeo Void and ABC and Olivia N.J. and ABBA we could throw her way.
Somehow we got to hear “Sister Christian” twice! Nightranger fuckin’ RÄÄWKS maaaan. Two fists in the air! Woo!
Hey, if you’re really a cool little man or missus woman, you’d email Melusine and wish her a happy buffday n’ shit. Never mind if you have never corresponded with her before. She’s a Sadge. She’ll understand and appreciate it.
My feet hurt. I walked home from the French Quarter last night. That's a few miles. Couldn’t find a cab and the St. Charles streetcars were not forthcoming. I had on Special Party Clothes (and I was looking dang fine if I do say so myself in snakeskin printed bellbottoms and a clingy stripèd sailor shirt that makes me look about as fat as Kate Moss). Oh, and shit-kicker cowboy boots on, which are pretty snazzy, but not very good for x-town hikes. So halfway home I took them off and teetered on the bricks and cobbles and asphalt of New Orleans in my little stockinged feet, holes worn through the bottom et cetera.
So thaaaat was fun…
Oh, and I got called names by drunken frat boys wearing dumb electric blinking mardi gras beads! Woo! I never get fucked with. Too tall, I guess, but put a bunch of frat boys together where their combined IQ almost breaks into treble digits, and it’s Hurl Names At the Marquis Night! Woo!
What was the moniker thrust upon me as I slinked through the Quarter at 2am in my weird ensemble?—
FAGGIT!
Woo! Thanks, boys. Made my night.
(I bet Lees™ is jealous and wish it had happened to her. No one says “Faggit!” quite as well as Lees®.)
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