I’ve been reading this etiquette book from the 30’s. Archaïc etiquette books are my passion. So twisted.
One of the ka-rayzee-with-a-K things about books printed in the 30’s is the old way of printing certain words. Makes me want to start a revolution.
So, if you would care to play the rôle and coöperate with me, then use the naïve æsthetics of those wickèd books and help me reëstablish the lost ligatures, umlauts and accents that English used to employ. Help this façade reëmerge through fœtid archæology of musty old books!
Gramercy.
 Early stage of a sad realisation. Inchoate bitchslap to my life: I’m tired. So Very, Very Tired. And I’m beginning to realise it’s not the kind of tired a nap will cure, nor a day trip to the Gulf.
I am becoming a tired person. I just can’t do what I used to do with and keep the same pace and my sanity as well. New Orleans is a rough town because there’s always 15 gobzillion things going on simultaneously, and one is required to be in three places at once most of the time.
Okay, okay, I know, it’s Mardi Gras weekend, so things are extra-krayzee-with-a-K, and I’m doing my best to keep up, working on an insufficient number of hours of sleep each day, trying to eat something occasionally, cutting out a lot of drinks because they are debilitating, etc.
And I find I am always tired. Even the smallest, most laid-back and easy-going activity takes the piss right outta me.
Two parades and a show was almost too much for me yesterday. I had to cut out nightclubbing at Shim Sham and a masquerade ball because I just don’t have the juice for all that any more.
My brow is knitted in consternation. I’m a leeeetle worried about this.
Granted, the band played a very long set last night, after starting the show late because of two shitty opening bands. But one does not just walk out on a Southern Culture On The Skids concert because they rock way too hard. Fatigued or no, one does not say no to a band which seems comprised of the love-children of The Cramps and the B-52’s, especially when they close each show with their song “8 Piece Box” and invite people on stage to dance and throw fried chicken at the crowd.
Got home from that nigh 4am. Missed a handful of other opportunities because I had run out of fuel and could do nothing but crash, and crash hard.
Mary, the bass player, whose style and class makes Grace Kelly look like po white trash, and who seems to be a hybrid of Poison Ivy from the Cramps and Kate Peirson from B-52’s, and I share a mutual friend. It was my plan to worm my way backstage, meet these lovely creatures, then take them out to the French Quarter to meet up with Patti. When the club started emptying out, I found that it was going to be quite, quite impossible for me to worm my way anywhere, much less be charming and lovely, and much, much less possible to go trolling around the Quarter. So I went home.
I used to be a lot more fun. Whither vamooosed my chutzpah? And whence schleps this ennui?
You can always count on a has-been for a fancy prose style. They have nothing else to do with their time.
“DJ, SAVE my life!” TODAY: Southern Culture On The Skids: “Camel Walk” (2.3 MB)
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