010101.html. How totally binary.
I guess it’s time to do that New Years Resolution thing. Right then.
- Smoke more.
- Drink more.
- Do more drugs.
- Be really, really broke. (No, but, like, reallllly and TOE-LLEEEE cashless.)
- Have more meaningless sexual encounters with people not meritous of my attentions.
- Fuck off a lot more.
- Be a bad email correspondent.
Yikes! Wait! There must have been a mix-up! That was laaaast year’s list. I guess this year will go a little more along these lines:
- Stay in shape.
- Or, maybe, get in slightly better shape, if you’re feeling up to it.
- Cultivate my career with a little more gusto. (Money does have its uses.)
- Stop shying away from hard stuff on the piano. Finish that damn Schubert sonata, for example.
- Get back to my artwork. Promote it. Make more of it. You know. Dork.
- Take the word “no,” not as an answer, but as a springboard for negotiations.
- Continue to explore and realise the full scale and awesome potential of my own fabulousness.
- Write more letters to friends and family who don’t have email addresses.
- Send more spontaneous postcards to unsuspecting people.
- Be open to the myriad ways that people can connect. (i.e., get head out of ass.)
- Kiss more people. On the mouth. With tongue. Schlurp.
#3 is the priority.
#7 I can do in my sleep.
#10 is a fait accompli. I played tonsil-hockey with friends and strangers alike last night. Which, in hindsight, might not have been the best idea, seeing as I’m suffering from a rather gruesome cold. Talk about the gift that keeps on giving!
New Year’s Eve in the French Quarter. In-Fucking-Sane.
Cold? Yah.
Crowded? Yah, but stay away from Bourbon Street and you’ll fare well.
Went trolling about upper Decatur, looking for friends out. I haven’t spent a lot of time on the upper Decatur bars lately — the “Trilogy of Terror” — Molly’s/Abbey/Hideout — my old haunts. And it shows. I didn’t know hardly no one!
Ended up at Shim Sham Club where all my friends were gathered in a cosy corner, laughing, drinking, making out, pole-dancing, being lovely and precious and fabulous.
And of course having Winifred in town is the mortar that keeps the bricks of my felicity together.
What a godawful metaphor that was. Totally inept. New Year’s Resolution #11: Write more gooder.
The ladies of Château Bimbeaux (Melusine and Winifred) are out shopping for foodstuffs for Patti’s Happy Hangover Party which begins in an hour across town. I really should have gone shopping with them, but the very thought of being in a grocery store right now is such a profoundly loathesome fantasy that my bowels roil in agitation and a migrane sends its first delicious stab through my befuddled cranium.
Oh, I still have RAINBOW-Head! by the way. It’s so incredibly ridiculous, that I’m enjoying a few days of being a blonde before I go blue.
Anyway, hope y’all’s year is lovely. And, to quote the charming and no doubt desirable Carl in Amsterdam who signed my guestbook, “Did you wash your hands before leaving the 20th century?”
Visit the Marquis’ Crush o’ the Week. Yah, we’re back to him. And why not.
“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 the next diary entry because we’re stealing bandwidth, here. (If you missed one in the past, email me — we’ll work something out.) TODAY: Eartha Kitt, “I Wanna Be Evil” (3.2 MB), because, I mean, c’mon. Really, now. Honestly.
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