My dear, it’s thrilling to be back in the old country. I’ve eaten fried chicken, fried shrimp, crawfish and gumbo (twice) and had a tasty treat called a Frozen Irish Coffee that was some kind of Oreo Slurpee for semi-adults comprising as it does liquor, coffee and chocolate in a slush.
Secret Agent Fred and I have also hit the gay bars in the French Quarter a couple of times this weekend. It was just more sad, sad evidence that queer bars are a dying species. Here we are, so close to Mardi Gras you have to hold your nose and the old-time gathering places that back in the dinosaur days of my youth would have been packed weren’t as full as they would have been on a regular week night back then, oh so long ago.
The only bright spots were shocking Fred with what a snarky bitch with a thick Southern accent I morphed into the instant I returned to my old haunts (poor Fred. I assume listening to me evaluate the chances of some skinny drunken twinky boy must be like an evening with Tennessee Williams. Grisly.) and I found out I have a fan. Some guy at Lafitte’s called out “Mrpeenee! I read your blog all the time!” Fred and I were both astonished and I was immensely gratified. The idea someone would recognize me from the pictures I post here has always seemed awfully unlikely (in real life I am a lot more glamorous and much more attractive.) I suppose the fact I had my patented vacant expression probably helped.
Anyway, I’d like to say “hey” to Mr. Lafitte’s and wish that I had had the presence of mind to be friendlier. I was just too surprised to be charming. As a token of my gratitude here’s some muscle pussy: