Yesterday was January 19th. You know what that means, of course.

That’s right. It was ole Ed Poe’s birthday.

The Sepulchritude gang, San Francisco chapter, has always celebrated this “holiday” with vim, baby, vim!

Kallistí emailed me that they were meeting at Lucky 13, Melusine’s old haunt, with a bunch of much-missed ne’er-do-wells, and that they had commissioned a special birthday cake — a red cake with red filling that looks a little like this:


Ever have one of those moments where you miss someone so much you want to commit hari-kari to scratch the itch in your heart?

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On another note, to all of you who have written in the last few days wondering if I were still alive, cheers to you, dollinks. I was quite stunned at the number of concerned emails both from people I know, and those who have never written before.

It’s been a lovely, bizarre, frightening week — one of the strangest I’ve had in many, many years, actually.

And alas, not suitable for print, just at the moment.

Sorry darlings. I just don’t feel like sharing.

I may actually take a brief sabbatical from this diary, come to think of it.

Very brief, I’m sure.

Or maybe just update with less frequency. I don’t want to become a slave to it. “You’re not the boss of me!”

If you want to read about the updates of my little life, might I suggest you pull a suspension-of-disbelief and just read last year’s entry for January 20th and pretend it’s for 2001?

It might as well be. It’s so bloody cold in New Orleans that I might as well still be in Pennsylvania.

Right. I’m off, then. To sleep, perchance to dream. Shoo-wop, shoo-wop, shoo-wop.

Visit the Marquis’ Crush o’ the Week. M’gawd, but she’s fuckin’ hilarious!

“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. TODAY: This is the song I’m learning to play. It’s pretty fucked up, and proving to be more problematic than one would think: “Brahms’ Capriccio in D, Opus 76 No.2” (3.1 MB).