Boogie avec le Marquis le Marquis’ Intimate Diary

TUESDAY, 12 DECEMBER, 2000, NEW ORLEANS
And that little “job search” part of life continues. I’m really looking for something special. Something along the lines of this place or this place — somewhere with magic and a personality.

I could go out today and start work at some dull dull dull monolithic corporate glass tomb in the CBD but, godammit, I’m gonna hold out as long as I can and search for something … else. Because (and call me a wacky, kook of a boy if you will), I have this weird, covert desire to be happy where I work.

What a nut, huh? Talk about skewed priorities. Someone needs to check me into the Rubber Room and hit me with a Wifflebat.

In about six minutes I’m going to have to start eating Top Ramen exclusively and hitting up friends for drinks when I’m out, always an endearing thing to do. Not to mention there’s that whole relationship I have with my landlord which goes a little like this: I give him some money. He lets me stay in this beautiful house.

“Where did you grow up? Were you poor? Did you eat chicken pot pies?” — Parker Posey in ‘House of Yes’

(I’m lunching on a chicken pot pie, hi, how are you?)

So as I’m cruising for work, casting out my little résumé to places that look interesting and off-centre, I’ve gotta come up with other means of income.

Doing this site is good for a little lettuce, among a few other clients. But my lavish and exquisite lifestyle requires that I have simply dozens more dollars in my account.

So I’m gonna be a porn star now, m’kay? I am selling humiliating pictures of myself for US$10/£8 a pop. Queue up ladies and fags.

In other newz:

Château Bimbeaux will be throwing a themed party early in January as soon as people have recovered from their New Years hangovers and Xmas Blight.

The theme? Come as your favourite masturbatory euphemism. Can’t wait to see my friends dressed as a choked Pope, all black and blue, or someone “Parting the Meat Curtains” with hotdogs and bacon strips dangling from the brim of a hat.

Counting the Cash in the Crotch Wallet. (Thanks, skinnydork.)

Shaking Hot White Coconuts Out of the Veiny Love Tree. (Nod to Pablo.)

That kinda rot.

Aren’t I clever to manage to have this weird facsimile of a smile on my face when destitution is so close? Last night, walking through the Quarter, I saw a bum slumped in a shop doorway. And I thought, “Hey! That’s me in a week!” and started laughing because once all my possessions had been taken away from me, I’d probably only be left with silver lamé pants and disco-mirror shirts and stuff. The Sparkly Homeless Man.

“Spare some change for a top-shelf mixed cocktail with a Grand Marnier topper and a pack o’ Dunhills, bub?”

Check out the Marquis’ Crush o’ the week! Admit it. Your desire quite oozes through your monitor. (Eww.)