Wednesday was Rockstaralicious. I got pimped up in red vinyl pants with steel loopy things down the legs, a black lace and vinyl shirt, my oversized floor-length black muppet coat and a two foot high fur … hat thing. One must dress to distress when going to see Louie Fontaine play — imagine the lovechild of Iggy Pop and Tom Waits with a charming Dutch accent.
Left Lounge Lizards to walk up Decatur to the last Cabaret Re-Voltaire show at 1135decatur, organized as always by the resplendent and redolent angeliska, who was drippingly gorgeous with her hair powdered and perruqed a sickly white, cheeseclothy gauze ribbons cascading willy nilly, flowing white tatters, rendering her The Ghost of Dada Past. Her traffic-stoppingly-beautiful sistah in crime, Violet, had little Wednesday Addams braids, and was dressed as the Leprous Virgin Bride, Suffering From Stigmata. (I think I still have chunks of her faux-flaking skin in my Muppet).
"Want to touch my vagina?" asked Angeliska. Who wouldn't! She handed over a medical dummy of a female torso, complete with appropriate orifices. After querying where the clitoris had gotten to ("She must be from West Africa, poor dear."), I buried my fingers in the damn thing to the prompting of Angeliska, "See if you can find the penny!"
Funny full-circle thing about this unique chicky-boo: She originally contacted me a year or two ago saying she was a reader of Suffering Is Hip Magazine, and that she would like to meet me and any of the other editors currently in New Orleans. At a late night dinner on Wednesday with her and Violet, I asked if I could interview them on their projects, inimitable aesthetics, and the scenes they create/cause, for a feature in S.i.H. Like draws like.
Popped my head into Molly's to pay homage to a number of the coolest bartenders in town who repeatedly make my mornings bright when they come to see me after they close. I owe a hundred more nights of homage to them, and it is with great alacrity and spunk that I shall duly pay what is their due. Doo-doo-doo-wop.
Crossed a line of inebriation that requires me to depart for home the moment the line becomes detected. I've been known to stop someone mid-sentence in an involved conversation to say, "I'm terribly sorry, but could you hold that thought? I have to go home. Right … now!"
Crumbled into bed, read about two words of my book and woke up at dusk the next day, just in time to attend the Where Y'at Magazine holiday party on, befittingly, Magazine Street, with a number of friends. The event was dullish, but catered with an open bar, so whatchagonnado?
When that closed, we betook ourselves to The Saint for a nightcap or twelve, then I scuttled to a friend's house for a naughty sleepover with trash flicks, and woke up late this afternoon.
To Club 735 to finally pick up all my artwork from a show in May that was extended through August or September. Thanks to Mr. W. for taking the time and pains to drive me into the Quarter and load these precious, fragile things. I feel much better now that they're in my home, though there has been a bit of bull-in-china-shop shenanigans in my house lately, so I hope they'll be okay until I manage to hang them again.
Stabbed at a bit of a Chopin sonata that is way over my head, got frustrated, gonna read and nap for a couple of hours before working Lizards tonight.
And that, mes amis is how I account for my time this week. You will be quizzed.