Category Archives: mardi gras

Once Again, Late

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O little lamby eyed children, I meant to post something about the start of Carnival on its actual start date which was Jan 6, but somehow a week has snuck past.  It happens.

So Happy Carnival.  Carnival is the season that leads up to Lent and which finishes with Mardi Gras.  The general idea I was always fed was that it was a chance to get all the wildness out before Lent, a season when you’re supposed to be all pious and godly and pruny faced and give up shit in order to show your neighbors what a good christian you are.  In reality I assume it’s simply one of those pagan holidays the Church gobbled up to get the pagans in the pews.  Surely, at this time of the year, after you’ve been snowed into some hut with a bunch of other stinky vikings, all of whom eat far too much cabbage, you are ready to cut loose and so here we are with some patched together holiday.

I moved to New Orleans in 1980 specifically so that I could live there during Mardi Gras.  I had come to visit during Fat Tuesdays in college and had such a good time, basing my life on the idea of being in town when the holiday hit seemed like a brilliant idea.  And it was.

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I always wanted my costume to get me to look like this.

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Inevitably it looked more like this.  Minus the striking head piece.  Mostly just a bunch of feathers and construction paper wadded up somewhere around me with some bananas and dirty feet.

I had no idea before I got there that there was an entire season of parties and parades and shenanigans that led up to the actual day of Mardi Gras, but once I found out about Carnival I plunged in with wild enthusiasm.  There is, or was, an air of giddy good times al over New Orleans during Carnival.   Any fuck up is shrugged off with an air of helplessness and the statement “It’s Carnival.”  Of course the street is suddenly closed because of a parade.  It’s Carnival. Of course you can’t get into your favorite restaurant because it’s closed for a party where people wear paper plates on their faces.  It’s Carnival.   Of course some former trick shows up at your doorstep and wants to spend the weekend.  It’s Carnival.

And that was the real thrill of the season for me: a substantial uptick in the amount of sex to be had, and I was already busy with a considerable quantity of boy pussy even without the whole “It’s Carnival” bit added in.

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Mens would be so swept up in the Bacchynal of it all, I was able to snag creatures as heavenly as this.  I swear.  And then we would move along to the next one.

When I lived there. I can remember 4 bars, just in the French Quarter, that housed back rooms devoted to anonymous, but high quality, sex.  I would strike out late in the evening confidant I would spend the next four or five hours getting blow jobs and butt fucking strangers and thought nothing of it.  It didn’t seem louche or strange or sordid.  It was Carnival.

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Like this.

On one fine Mardi Gras afternoon, I fought my way through the crowd up to the balcony around a bar called Lafittes in Exile.   There was a wall of men hanging over the railing which provided a shield for me to get down on my knees and go to town on this cute, cute boy’s wiener.  I had only really got rolling when an employee tapped me on the shoulder, not to berate me, but to ask that I take it inside.  I was annoyed.  I found out later from friends who worked there, it was simply a duty that got handed out to patrol the balcony and stop nasty business from getting out of  hand.  The job was called Cock Cop.

I don’t know why they bothered, it was never that uncommon to run across a couple of guys engaged in sodomy in some doorway.  Ah, l’amour.

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Or this.

Of course all that’s done and gone and I feel sorry for the queers of today who missed it.  But, oh whatever Saint blessed me with the idiotic idea to come live in New Orleans for Mardi Gras, my most sincere thanks.

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Saint Buttus Fuckus, we give thanks for your many gifts and for protecting your devout followers from STDS.  Amen/

Photographic Proof

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I am so bad about not taking pictures that when I got back from New Orleans, I simply assumed I had none.  Imagine my surprise when I discovered some aliens had apparently been snapping away on my behalf.  Herewith, Mardi Gras 2014:

Asian Magnolias exploded into bloom right after we got there, a botanical “Hey gurl, welcome back”

Two views of the patio of our charming, charming French quarter hotel

Magda and the author planning something or the other.

Magda sucking down a delicacy known as a Frozen Irish Coffee which turned out to be deadly poison and laid the poor  thing to waste for days

The coldest fucking parades I have ever stuck it out through, bolstered as I was  by my sistahs in crime,  from left, Secret Agent Fred, Sister Mary Feet in the Air, Magda, and the author, dressed as Roz Russell in The Women.  Please note the staggering amount of beads all caught in mid air.  We scorned any that had landed on the filthy sloppy ground.  Friends referred to us as “Bead Whore,” but they were just jealous.  Sad, really.
The Haul back in our room.  We had planned to hurl our largesse to the clamoring crowds below on Mardi Gras day from our balcony, but the fucking freezing cold rain eliminate that plan, so we just abandoned our riches when we left. I felt like some Russian white countess kissing off the family jewels as she scampered out of town ahead of the Bolshies.

My new house, plain, echoing, smelly (goddam hobo tenants,) and LOOOONG.  Forgetting something in one of the front rooms when you’re in the back makes you seriously consider roller-skates.

Mardi Gras on Ice

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Histrionics on Tuesday were busy shrieking that this was the most miserable Mardi Gras EVER.  The problem with histrionics is they can sometimes be close to correct.  It was cold and wet and, yes, miserable, but I had a lovely time.  A few days since we got here have been warm and lovely, but Monday night, when we went out uptown to see parades and then Mardi Gras itself were absolutely frigid.

Highlights of the 2014 Carnival Season, mrpeenee-style included

Getting smacked in the face by a fistful of red beads from a float.  Hurt like a other fucker and I was actually sort of stunned, but even in that state, I managed to be furious that I had missed catching the beads.  If you’re going to be wounded trying to snag some completely worthless shiny plastic beads, you want to at least have the fucking beads for your trouble.  Fortunately, our old chum Magda was right behind me and adeptly plucked them from mid air as they bounced off my skull.  Yay, for this and so many other things, for Magda.

A gang of costumers dolled up like pirates had a spring coil cannon made out of PVC pipe and they aimed it squarely at this annoying goon squad of Christians who were nattering around about how we were all damned and Jesus really, really, really loved us, but was still going to send us to hell for sodomy.  I had a neckful of beads, because when not getting clocked by them, I am quite good at racking them up.  I gave them all to the pirates and they were able to hit one of the Christians’ signs with them.  Hooray!

We went to parties and hung out in bars and wandered around crowds of the most amazing costumes and high spirits,  I flirted with cute guys and then I came back to my lovely hotel room to thaw out and take a nap.  It’s a sweet life.

Go go boys were universally luscious and one of my favorite wanted to get spanked, an option I always sign up for.  Bitch had a butt like a meat balloon filled with jelly. Of course, as I’ve mentioned, traveling with Secret Agent Fred brings many benefits, including the one where go go boys are drawn to him and he’s great at striking up amusing flirtations with them.  Plus, have you ever noticed what a good bargain stripper boys are?  Inflation may have affected every other aspect of modern life, but you can still squeeze on the boys for a buck slipped into their panties, just like in the 80s.

The only thing missing was easy sex.  Back in the 80’s, bars competed to have the sleaziest back rooms and I was a connoisseur.  Now, sad (and chilly) old men huddle glumly in rooms that used to hold a crush of copulation watching some satin skinned dancer like he’s a commercial for adult diapers.  Fred and I were often the only ones tipping the boys and they were, understandably, attentive.  I felt it was the least we could do, after all, it must be tough to pay your rent one crumpled dollar bill at a time.

Reporting Live from New Orleans

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Secret Agent Fred and I are in New Orleans, The City that Care Forgot and the Quite a Few of Us Remember Fondly because I had to come here to buy my house (quaintly, everyone, sellers, buyers, agents, lawyers, hangers-on, and paparazzi for all I know, have to sit down together and have a big ol paper signing party) and to celebrate the madness of Mardi Gras.

The first part is nailed, I just got back from the closing and inspecting the house again.  The house is still quite charming, especially now that the hillbilly tenants are gone and the closing was most amusing.  One of the sellers was this vision in orchid/lavender/plum.  Her eye makeup, lip lacquer, jewelry, scarf, and pumps were an absolute purple symphony.  She wasn’t just co-ordinated, it was more like some fashion cloning process.

It’s thrilling ti be here talking with my friends Rich and Stephen, who will be handling the renovation for me, since they understand all my vague pronouncements about the changes I want, or at least pretend they do, and are generally able to avoid my sweeping hand gestures.  Photos to come.

Our first parade is Saturday night.  Fred’s never seen one, so he’s a virgin.  I’m sure it will be pretty hilarious, unless we all wind up in jail.  But isn’t that always the way?

Hoofing It Down to the Land of Dreamy Dreams

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Secret Agent Fred and I have decided to invade New Orleans for Mardi Gras, 2014.  I know the last time I went there for Carnival, I swore I wouldn’t go again because visiting the madness is so much less fun than actually living there for it, but I’ve reached an age when repeating my mistakes is a charming quirk, so here we go.

First step: make hotel reservations, which is not easy during the highest of high seasons.  Second step: wonder if simply buying a house there wouldn’t be cheaper, considering what hotel rooms run during Mardi Gras.  Third step:  start sopping for shoes for my costume.

Footwear has always been problematic for me and my costumes.  I get all the other pieces together and suddenly my Converse tennis shoes are just not cutting it.  Even if I don’t do drag, I might still want to wear high heels, cause they’re so gay.   Still, you’d be surprised how puny is the selection of ladies size 15 pumps.

And how ugly they are.

I’m thinking about boots and am willing to consider input from you guys.

The fucsia, third from Right, are particularly fetching

Brooding about my feet just reminds me of a long ago Southern Decadence when I was back there for a visit and had to rustle up something in a hurry.

My friend Rich let me borrow his red wig (I know not everyone can pull off that Titianesque shade, I’m just lucky that I can really rock it)

and that tired old Merry Widow bustier has long been my go-to for a quick get up, but even with fishnets, the whole thing sort of skids to a sorry halt with those white mules, which Rich described as “Nancy Nurse on vacation.”  Bitch.

That same giddy afternoon included a tragedy when another friend, Cow Queen, accidentally knocked off my wig (at least, he claims it was an accident) outside some not-very-nice bar on Rampart Street.  I certainly was not going to take that and so, CATFIGHT, which thrilled onlookers no end.

Later he tried to suck up, but between a wig on the sidewalk and those shoes, I was just mortified.

That’s why I’m leaning towards boots, boots with which I can kick the shit out of somebody.

What do you think?

Fat

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Happy Mardi Gras yall.  Saki and I plan on celebrating by taking a vigorous nap.

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Of course, my life was not always so staid.  I actually moved to New Orleans specifically to be there for Mardi Gras.  It was one of the few really good decisions I’ve made.  An example of the many, many bad decisions I made was the year I went in to work as a room service waiter at the Marriott late on  Mardi Gras afternoon after I had taken acid earlier in the day.  Such a very long shift.

Cute boys always add a lot to preparing for Lent, cause you need something to give up.

But most of my other Fat Tuesdays were wonderful times.  I hope everybody enjoys today as much as I loved the ones gone by.

Tuesday Wednesday Heart Attack

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Happy Mardi Gras, ya’ll. If you can read this, you’re not celebrating hard enough.

I refuse to whine, once again, about how it was all better when I was young and living in New Orleans, because that same time also includes the period when Flock of Seagulls hairdos were considered a viable option.


Mardi Gras. It only happens once a year, you know.



I’ve Given Up Being On Time for Lent

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I actually posted this three years ago for Mardi Gras and just ran across it now, more than a day late, but I’m dragging it back up now because a) I still feel this way about Carnival and b) I’m too lazy to come up with anything new.

Tomorrow, I promise to share the thrilling details about the Barbie dolls that have come to haunt me.
Anyway, back to Mardi Gras posts gone by:
Darlings, a moment, please, while an old man wipes a sentimental tear away. As a young homo living in the French Quarter in New Orleans, Carnival was a time that never failed to thrill me to my very core. The whole season is a celebration of debauchery, and Mardi Gras is its apex, nominally to get it all out of your system in time for Lent, to which I always said a hearty “whatever”. I adored the tons of boys pouring into town looking for sex, which I was only too happy to provide; getting loaded with friends at all hours for hours; the parades; hell, I even looked forward to the nasty little king cakes.

I actually moved to New Orleans because of Carnival. I had been lucky enough to go to several while in college in Austin, driving 10 hours to New Orleans, careening through the weekend and then dragging my sorry ass home. After I left Austin, I briefly wound up in Seattle, but one day suddenly realized I could live in New Orleans and have Mardi Gras come to me instead of the other way around. Coincidentally, that was the same day Reagen was elected the first time and NOLA seemed like a good place to go hide. I was there in time for the next Carnival. I seem to remember costuming as a flamingo.

I spent one Mardi Gras lying on my back athwart the threshold of my bathroom tripping like a million screaming monkeys. My friends alternated between stepping daintily over me to use the facilities and trying to talk me into going outside. I steadfastly refused, announcing that I was perfectly comfortable. And I was. I had spent the whole weekend running around to bars with my dick hanging out. I needed the rest. After another Mardi Gras, I was discussing what a gorgeous day it had been with my dear friend Magda who finally had to point out it had, in fact, rained non-stop and that I had simply been too loaded to notice.

The year I was working as a room service waiter, I amused myself all morning doing acid and then had to go to work for the 3:00 shift still tripping. Oh, that was a year to cherish, let me tell you.

Of course, drugs and sex are not all Carnival has to offer. There’s also parades and beads, both of which are dear to me. I vividly recall the image of a float bearing down on me one night on St. Charles Avenue, its glaring lights illuminating a fountain of beads erupting from it. They were cheap and gaudy and I would fight you to the ground for them. Do not get between me and them pearls, bitch. We had bags of them by the time we left town, everyone does.

After we moved to San Francisco I went back once for Mardi Gras. It was terribly amusing, of course, but not the same, poignantly enough. Still, this time of the year, every year, I remember it all longingly. And to that young poofter hanging out in a jam packed bar tonight, high as the proverbial kite, feeling up some humpy guy from out of town, and simultaneously wondering what he’s going to wear on Tuesday, I say Here’s to ya honey. You go girl.

Carnival and Buddah

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Happy Twelfth Night to you all. This is the start of Carnival, so in New Orleans the grande dames of society (also known as the Old Bats) are rockin it ON hoping to have their husbands stay to the end of the party rather than sneaking off to the stripper bars in Metairie. And just now my slightly retarded I-Tune shuffle feature for once came through and is playing an old timey Mardi Gras tune, Iko Iko. The gods speak to us. Around this time of year, New Orleans radio stations dig out an array of the same songs each year, like Christmas carols, but more cool. Mardi Gras Mambo, Tipitina, Big Chief: I loved them all right up to the annual point of being sick to death of them.
Also, this being the twelfth day of Christmas, appropriately enough, I got my last present. Actually it had just been held up, but the timing seems propitious and now that it’s here, I’m thrilled.

A ginormous carved, gilded face of Buddah. Perfect for our bright red hall.

Out of the Closet

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How sobering it is to realize that, for me, the highlight of our recent redecorating spree was emptying and then tidying up the freshly painted linen closets. I truly am Martha Stewart in a gay man’s body. I make no excuses, I find it immensely gratifying to throw crap away; to haul off mounds of no longer wanted possession to the Goodwill thrills me. I took eight giant garbage bags of old sheets and blankets to Animal Care and Control, aka The Cat Jail. Even as I type this, homeless kitties are snuggling into high thread count flannel, thanks to me. I am a hero.

You know that home redecorating show Clean House, where they barge into homes that are awash in mountains of junk and then shovel all that junk into a yard sale and redecorate for the schmucks who were previously buried there? I am just the opposite of those schmucks: whereas they cannot let go of their stuff, I cannot get rid of it fast enough. Whatever their sickness is, I have none of it. Maybe I could sell a vaccine.

Just to prove I am not totally lost to sentimentality, though, part of this most recent round of closet and drawer ransacking turned up the remains of my favorite Mardi Gras costume. I made it by removing the arms from a baby doll and wiring them to wear as a kind of headpiece so they looked like devil horns. Some people were quire disturbed by them which thrilled me no end. Those will NEVER go to Goodwill. I think I’d like to be buried in them, please.