Studies show: 3 out of 4 people at my favourite nightclub are cute.
“Studies don’t lie, Bob.”
Melusine and I were looking preternaturally stunning last night. You should have been there. You wouldn’t have believed your eyes. Me, slinking about in my crotch-hugging safety-orange Greg-Brady trousers and awful polyester-print shirt. Melusine offsetting her ominous ba-LACK with a bubblegumpink “Antisocialite” tee, bobbing and weaving on the dance floor, workin’ it all on out.
I spent the night shopping.
Email to Melusine this morning:
There were so many lovely people there last night. And I like to consider myself one of them. So why did I come home alone when I SPECIFICALLY made a HUGE effort to shop around, make eye contact with the lovlies, pose and preen by the doorway.
I was, in essence, the Bouncer of Loveliness, not checking hand-stamps at the door, but bone structure and fashion sense.
“You’ll do.”
But maybe it wasn’t about coming home with somebody. Maybe it was all about The Show. Who doesn’t love a parade? And there was a Charm Show of Beauty last night, and everyone knew it. Gazing about starry-eyed at fabulous, dreadfully fashionably eye-candy.
Melusine and I PR'ed our upcoming party, handing out fliers to the Masturbatory Euphemism Fête to those who struck our fancy.
I struck up a conversation with some fop boy surrounded by lovely, fawning ladies.
Gah. So much bone structure. So little time.
Fop boy had the slightly glimmery, frilly poet shirt, and silver-embroidered morning coat, and just a touch of Robert Smith make-up. Tired? Can be, but when done right, it’s still A Look, innit.
“What’s your name?”
“Marquis. Yourself?”
“Albee.”
How fitting, I thought! For Melusine was spending the evening writing lines from Edward Albee’s “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” on the toilet chalkboards as a Rite of Exorcism.
“Very nice, may I call you Edward?” I said.
“Huh?”
“Edward. Edward Albee.”
“Oh, no, Albi. As in Byron’s nickname.”
“You’ll do,” I said as I whipped out my big 8 1/2 x 11 inch flier and thrust it into his trembling hand.
“Hmmm!” he said as he perused the weird, text-heavy flier.
Just then Ambrosia, the spookee dragqueen popped by. “I’m going, you should too,” he said to Albi.
Operation Import-Lovelies is a smashing success.
I want to take home most of the people there last night and bring them to my weird party.
So that they might be in my house.
So that I might say to one or twelve of them, “Why don’t you come up to my boudoir and experiment with a little chakra work with me? I’ve got chocolate truffles.”
Oh, here’s an amusing thing. Don’t know if y’all remember my biting exposé on “The Rickolator!” Go read up if you missed it.
Anyway, he’s pretty much been a fixture at the club on many of the nights that I go there. He was there last night, and apparently socialising within the circle lorded over by Albi.
Which meeeeans, of course, that we may be entertaining “The Rickolator!” at our fête next week.
Oh my!
Christie? Are you out there sweetie? Are you reading this honey? How quickly can you get your ass to New Orleans?
I gotta say, for the record, that I’m warming up to “The Rickolator!” In a sort of, “Aww, who left the puppy out in the rain?” way, I mean. Saw him last week at the upstairs bar, sitting alone on a couch that dwarfed him, staring morbidly, bored, into the depths of his plastic cup. Near pout. Poor moppet. While feigning a conversation with someone, I actually devoted my attention to simply watching him. Picking up on his pathos and bathos. Gettin’ down to the real “The Rickolator!”
A friend of his came upstairs and exchanged a few words. His eyes lit up. He was animated for a minute. One could fairly see his coccyx waggling happily. Then, Friend went away, and tailbone simmered down, and pout re-spread, and something became interesting in the bottom of his cup again.
Melusine is probably going to smack me or stomp on my foot for saying this, but I really wanted to go talk to him. “It’s okay, ‘The Rickolator!’ I may not understand, but I understand. Do you understand?”
Wow. This is, like, the shallowest, most superficial entry I think I’ve ever written. But indulging in fluffiness and a kind of Californian vapidity does wonders for thwarting off the more oogey, darker dæmons that lurk at the doorway as this dreadful post-xmas malaise threatens to shut me down for a month.
I’m just staving off the inevitable.
Studies don’t lie.
Visit the Marquis’ Crush o’ the Week. (I could be arrested for this one.)
NEW FEATURE! “DJ, SAVE my life!” Wanna feel like a Marquis? Download the music he’s listening to. But do it quickly. This mp3 will be erased at my next diary entry because I’m stealing bandwidth. If you missed one in the past, email me. TODAY: Good ole “Mouthful o’ Cotton” Wayne Newton crooning “Danke Shöen” (2.3 MB).
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