Boogie avec le Marquis le Marquis’ Intimate Diary

“Untitled” SATURDAY, 10 MARCH, 2001, NEW ORLEANS

Bat & Kallistí are départées. Big frowny face.

For the last eight days of their stay at the balmy, sultry, ever-luvvin’ Château Bimbeaux, we were the House o’ Consumption. All four editors of “Suffering is Hip” in one place at one time, and all we can think to do is emit great hacking coughing fits like morning birds tweeting their greetings to the rest of the clan.

A simultaneously wonderful and dreadful time.

When fate smiles upon me, she invariably has spinach in her teeth.

(That last line should have been more amusing. Sometimes I think my writing really only belongs on the Quoted site. I am more amusing when taken out of context.)

So what has the Marquis been up to besides making pots and pots and pots of green/kombucha/echinacea/golden seal/ginger tea and doing his best Chopin impersonation by playing a lot of piano and hacking up a fine mist of blood?

Glad y’axed.

I’ve been gardening. Dear Scary William came over yesterday to help me till, weed, sow, plant, and drink bloody marys.

Micha-Pooh-Pooh-Kitten-Ass rang while we were out mucking around in the dirt. “I’ve got my very own special gardener friend here!” I told her.

“I’z yo yahd-niggah!” quod Scary William.

Micha, sarcastically: “Ahhh, how I do miss the south. What are you planting?”

Marquis: “Monkey grass.”

Micha: “Is it on the porch?”

Marquis: “I suppose it’s pretty durn close, why?”

Micha: “You’re planting porch monkeys!”

Ahhh, the south. You can get away with saying shite like that.

(And that’s not really entirely a good thing, but ah well…)

(This next part is dedicated to all my readers who do not live on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico—)

Guess what I did Thursday!

Oh, never mind. I don’t want to hear your conjecture. I’ll tell you:

Drove to Mississippi and went to the beach! I hear there was a blizzard in New York right about the same time.

Hah hah! I WIN!

Splished about in the bath-like waves, walked out into the sea about a quarter of a mile from sand dune to sand dune, taught Scary William’s dog how to swim, laid out in the sun, and didn’t get harrassed by a single baptist!


Last time I sojourned on the Mississippi coast, Baptists parked near our car, walked the desolate white-sanded beach, waded out to us on a sand dune and began pushing pamphlets.

My friend smiled sweetly and said, “I’m Jewish.”

The Baptists stammered and muttered something about some of their closest friends being Jewish.

Yah, I thought rolling my eyes, some of my closest friends are some of my closest friends…

Vasectomy Reversal Driving back to Louisiana we passed (besides scary billboards for vasectomy reversals) one of dem Super-K-Mart doo-hickeys and had to make a stop. After picking out the plants for our respective gardens, we trundled inside to see what’s what.

March. That’s near April. And April means Easter. And Easter means Cadbury’s Creme Eggs. (And that’s pretty much all easter means, too, unless you’re into white chocolate crosses with cake-stars in the centre. Ahh, Mississippi.)

In the UK, Cadbury’s is a name as common as Hershey’s is, state-side. Difference being however, that Cadbury’s kicks some boo-TAY! Pity it never really caught on in the ole U.S. of Armageddon. ‘Cept for Easter’s creme eggs.

Ah, but I fear I am on the verge of a proselytizing rant for chocolates. How very unbecoming. Switch tracks, quick!

My hair’s not blue any more. Well, two streaks at the temples weaving throughout my “Bonifa-Black” violet-based mass of darkness. This afternoon will be Bleach-The-Temples day and, once translucent and sufficiently damaged, I will work in fire-engine-whore-hotpants-red. Little Flame-Head. That’s what they’ll call me in the schoolyard. And I’ll wear the moniker loud n’ proud.

Sigh. Do you get the feeling that this diary is finally dying, a year and a half after I began it? I sometimes do. I used to be the best on the net. Now, there are better. Quean, for example, writes nothing less than diamonds. Badjuju’s sailor story is pretty goddamned good as well. Pablo likewise weaves words like gold filament into lace.

And then there’s me. Shoo-wop, shoo-wop, shoo-wop.

“DJ, SAVE my life!” TODAY: The Andrews Sisters: “Hold Tight (I Want Some Seafood Momma)” (2.9 MB) (ARCHIVES)