November 1st, 2002

I Will Not Defame New Orleans.

What I Did On My Halloween Vacation, by the Marquis

And it was a vacation. I didn't have to work. Woohoo! and boohoo! All dat moanay would have been nice, but honestly, it was better to be able to play with friends. There was a random Philly convergence this year. Five or six friends from my Philly days showed up in New Orleans and all touched base with me. Some were not aware that some others were also here. "Oh my god, Rob's in town too? That's freakin' freaky!"

Schpewwwkeeee!Pre-going-out-cockytails at my Château Bimbeaux. (I'm the one on the left with the teddy bear and 'bankie' and sucking pleasantly on my thumb. Not pictured: union suit with buttflaps half undone. What was I? "Ready for bed." Take that as you please.)

Friends Jeanne and Lisa Conrad popped 'round to help us begin the evening. We drove around the corner to do our five seconds of trick-or-treating at Trent Reznor's house, but his lights were out, so we drove to Lucy's in the Warehouse Dist., drank, tried Mermaid Lounge, but the cover charge was too steep to warrant a 10 minutes stopover, then Matador's and blah blah blah…

Who really wants to read a forensic rehashing of some dork's Halloween night? These names and places don't mean anything to you, in all likelihood. I can't think of anything more dull. So let me present random isolated occurrences that pop to mind when I close my eyes and think of last night.

  • Rob's Wolverine ahn-sahm-blah. Or, as it came to be known, "Woo! Wolverine!" for that's what approximately 6,ooo people yelled at him throughout the night.

    "What are you supposed to be?"

    "Woo! Wolverine!"

  • Rory's Ozzy outfit. The boy looked exactly like 'im. To seal the deal, he would shout, whenever confused, "Sharon! Sharon! What the fuck! Sharon!"

  • Oh god, just all the gorgeous or clever costumes in the French Quarter last night. Far too many to name. The one that sticks out the most is brilliant in its simplicity and originality. A guy and a girl. Man in a suit and tie. Woman in a dress and blouse and scarf. But both the tie and the scarf were wired or starched in such a manner that they stuck out at a 90° angle, making them seem as if they were standing in a hurricane or leaning out of the window of a fast moving car. Two inert people, sipping cocktails in the R Bar, with their tie and scarf blowing in the non-existant breeze. I laughed for ten minutes. It was beautifully absurd.

  • The strong reminder of why I avoid Bourbon Street and the Fruit Loop. Gay men, in large numbers, create the most obnoxious society, and Bourbon is just Bourbon. [Shudder.]

  • Bittersweet pining for Michele, our old Philly cohort, and my ex-New Orleans housemate who, sadly, lives somewhere far and stupid. She would have completed the posse, and she was grievously missed.
So I have this problem, you know, being a bartender and all. I'm supposed to know about 75% of the city's population personally and intimately since I've served them all and probably chatted with them all. But I have a horrible memory for faces and names. I am constantly barraged by people on the street, "Marqueeeeee! Hey! How ya doin'?!" I usually smile and greet them then shrug my shoulders once they've left. Okay, so if I have this pre-existing problem for people in their regular day-wear, perhaps you can intuit just how nuts everything got last night when people were dressed up and in disguise.

Churchy? You wanna back me up on this one? Were you not also approached by about 120 people last night who seemed to know you well, but you hadn't the faintest clue who the fuck they were? Sign in, please.

I tired out around 5am (pussy boy!) after making Scabs (my teddy bear) fuck Ho-To (friend's stuffed terrier — she was dressed as Dorothy) and taking pictures. Miraculously, my bike, which was parked in front of Shim Sham from the night before, was still there and intact. Even Squeaky Satan Horn Head was there! I rode home, buttflaps a-flappin', and thought I'd read myself to sleep. I picked up the book, grunted, dropped it on my face, and that's the last thing I remember.

Woke up around 3pm to the merry symphony of One Leaf Luthah and the Po Boys with their goddamned gardening devices, began writing this, and then the doorbell rang.

It was my Philly phriends, just waking up and coming round to say hi. Rob was still in his Woo! Wolverine! costume, which was glaringly yellow in the unforgiving afternoon sun. I just pointed at him and laughed for about fifteen minutes while he grumbled and talked about taking a shower.

We putzed around for a while, trying to keep it slow n' easy like Al Green, still recovering from the night before. Lemonade on the balcony in the warm Autumn sun. Rehashing last night and laughing.

I'd say that's the end of the story of Halloween, but this is New Orleans, and holidays just don't die that easy. Tonight is my Monday night, as far as work is concerned. My out-of-towners are congregating at Lounge Lizards to see me, then going fag-club hopping for the rest of the night. Only one fag in the group, but I don't see why that should matter.

This weekend will be the death of me.

(Until the next weekend comes along.)