Once Again, Late

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Boo

Two years ago, I was visiting New Orleans. As I was walking over to visit my dear old chum Magda, I stumbled onto a parade.  It’s New Orleans, parades happen like that.  It was the Crewe de Boo.  Halloween, you get it?  Anyway this evening, I was going to the drug store and once again ran into the Crewe de Boo.  It’s possible they’ve been just parading around nonstop for the last couple of years.

Interestingly enough, the visit that included that original serendipitous parade viewing was also the one where I decided to buy a house here.  And so why am I in town now?  Because I am selling the house I bought.  What a coincidence, huh? The act of sale is next week so I have to go and be all serious and stuff as well as pack up.

When I got the house originally, part of its dilapidated condition included a half ass little addition to the back that we referred to as Granny Clampett’s Wash Shed.  Amazingly, the door knob was this copper plated Art Noveau charmer.

I announced I had bought the house in order to get the knob, a bit of blather Magda remembered when it came time to rip the shed down and so he pounced on the knobs and saved them for me.  We consequently used them for cabinet pulls, but I am not about to allow the new owners to benefit from dear Magda’s recycling efforts so I removed them and will take them back to San Francisco with me.  I have no idea what I might use a pair of semi-antique dor knobs for, but I’m sure something will come to me.   Earrings, possibly.

Bloody Moon

And you know what else?  Living in San Francisco means not only that we’re the center of the disaster movie universe, but also that the tattered remains of the hippie era refuse to die here.  Proof?  Sunday evening was both a Super Moon (a full moon with “the closest approach the Moon makes to the Earth on its elliptical orbit, resulting in the largest apparent size of the lunar disk as seen from Earth,” thank you Wikipedia, and a term I never remember running into until recently and now which seems to turn up as regularly as a Dame Edith Farewell Tour) and a full lunar eclipse, a so-called “Blood Moon” because of the red color it takes on.  Naturally all the hippie-wiccan-Burning Man types and others who don’t keep their pubes trimmed were wild for the prospect.

This being San Francisco, the fog blew in right at sunset and obscured the whole thing.  All the pagans were terribly disappointed, poor dears.  It’s just as well, I had planned on sacrificing a goat, but they were all sold out and Saki absolutely refused to cooperate.  I had hoped that the ceremony might help unload my house in New Orleans which STILL has not sold.

What is wrong with these fatheads?  It’s a great house and I’m throwing in all of my exquisite taste that I lavished on the dump for free.  I don’t know, I suppose it’s just bad moon ju-ju.

Goats. Never around when you need them.

I Hate Writing. I Love Having Written.

In an almost charming back-and-forth in the comment section of Cafe Muscato , Diane von Austinburg and Muscato were griping about my lack of writing, blogging, mash notes, whatever, so I’m ripping off a portion of an email I JUST SENT to Diane as proof that they’re full of baloney.  There.

to wit:

“I had a dream some person stole a baby and then I was reprimanding them for this and then, I don’t know, they died? Maybe? Anyway I wound up with the baby and was terribly confused.

Did I tell you about the path o’ destruction I found here when I came home? A busted window, a broken lamp, a hole in the office closet door, my keyboard and mouse replaced because the old had “gotten fried,” and the dried remains of some mysterious fluid splattered all over the upper stairwell and hall. Secret Agent Fred blamed Saki, Saki took that “Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t” attitude cats are so fond of. I’m not sure I believe either of them.”

See?  I write.  News you can use, gossip, and slander all rolled up with possibly prophetic dreams.

Speaking of dreams:

Also, while I’m recycling old emails to friends who don’t deserve them, here’s part of one I dashed off to Night is Half Gone’s Jason while we were ducking and weaving in New Orleans last month:

“two of my neighbors blipped up on Friday and tried to be trouble to me, but I charmed them into fucking off. Later, I mentioned to the contractor and one of his minions “I got 99 problems and that hag ain’t one of them.” Both of the guys seemed gratifyingly amused, less amusing was their attitude of complete astonishment that I could paraphrase rapper thugs. Bitch, what you looking at, I am down.”

I’m telling you, epistolary.

Progress

I don’t think I made it perfectly clear earlier that not only am I in New Orleans, but I am actually living in my house here, the house with which I have been struggling to renovate for the last year and a half and which seemed like would be the death of me.

Not so.

Here’s proof:

The fabulous blue guest room which Secret Agent Fred and Diane von Austinberg each refer to as “My room.” I’m staying out of it.

Towards the rear

And towards the front. Sometimes I just turn around and take pictures.

Obviously, the kitchen. The cabinet maker tried really hard to talk me out of red, which he kept referring to as “RED.” Sometimes it’s best just to ignore people. Often, in fact.

See?

The cabinet doors are all recycled from long gone houses.

These are all living room featuring the Wall O’ Windows.

Cause every house needs a blackamoor.

The great big clock started out life in one of the big department stores down on Canal Street, at least that’s what the antique store hawking it said.

My bedroom. I call the lovely taupe “Expensive Mud.” And yes, I’m using the fireplace as a headboard. You got something to say about that?

Chinoiserie. Yep.

Reporting Live from New Orleans. Again.

Yes, I’m back in the old country once again, despite United Airlines’ vigilant attempt to keep me out.

Traffic to the San Francisco airport was backed up with one of the exit lanes off the freeway closed, cause why would you need all the lanes to the airport of one of the world’s most popular tourist destinations functioning in June?  That’s just crazy talk, right?

According to the check-in kiosk computer I arrived 43 minutes before my flight.  Turns out if you’re not checked in 45 minutes before your flight, chaos.  I finally fought my way past the ticket counter and baggage and security and fetched up at the gate 10 minutes after they had started boarding when they told me they had canceled my seat.  I explained I had checked in already up front so I could dump off my bags and queried the frump at the desk if they thought I had changed my mind between the ticket counter and the gate about coming to New Orleans.

I immediately regretted my sassy ass attitude as it was clear I was teetering on the brink of being turned away, but professionalism won out, she let me through and I got to my seat just in time to sit there for a half hour while the pilot did the cross word and the stewardesses discussed their hair, or whatever the hell they were all doing.

Anyway, I’m here now, it’s steamy, and I’ve got a big day planned for tomorrow of sitting around waiting for the cable guy to come give me some internet.  Living the big life in the Big Easy, baby.  Also, just as a blogger’s note, if you are a sloppy typist, like mrpeenee, and fumble your way through “the old country,” WordPress will correct it to “toehold country” which is actually a pretty accurate way of describing my life in New Orleans.

This is most certainly NOT waiting for me at my house, nor does it seem likely the cable guy will provide anything like it. That does closely resemble my couch, though.

Seventeen Perfectly Good Reasons mrpeenee Hasn’t Blogged in Weeks

I’m lazy.

Our dear, dear old chum Magda died earlier this month and while I wasn’t prepared to include here how sad the loss made me, I also didn’t feel like I could just ignore it either.  He was sweet as I am bitter and lovable as I am curmudgeonly and the world is a dimmer place without him.

Also, Magda was central to the house I purchased in New Orleans and its renovation.  He helped me pick out the furniture and was full of sensible suggestions about the reno and actually worked a great deal more on it than I did.  The fact that he died a little more than a week before I moved in and thus never saw the finished glory is galling, just galling.

And yes, I moved into the house last week.  Turns out moving into a house halfway across the country is hard.  More on that later.

I am not about to mess up a perfectly good manicure typing this gibberish for all you ingrates, much as I love you.

The internet has run out of pictures of attractive young men for me to swipe and illustrate my posts with.  Wait, that’s not true.

The world simply does not need another blog entry about how annoying cats who hog the whole bed are.

Speaking of Saki, he won’t get off the computer, so I couldn’t get to my blog.

If Mistress over at Infomaniac doesn’t have to blog, why should I?  I haven’t been bad.

I wasn’t feeling it.

The stupid little topknots all the stupid boys are wearing these days fills me such an unquenchable rage that I can’t concentrate on typing.

I had planned on writing while I was in New Orleans last week, but the gorgeous, enormous thunderstorms were just too distracting.  As much as I love San Francisco and our persistently beautiful weather here, I also miss the drama of a Gulf Coast storm.

Pudding.

I’ve been playing the old timey dice game Yahtzee on my phone with all my friends and crushing them in defeat has taken up all my attention.

I would think about writing a post and then think “I need a nap.”  Naps always win.

I’m still lazy.

This is How mrpeenee’s Brain Works

Space here on earth is a finite thing, you know, and I say if your reproductive system forces you to use one of those stupid double wide baby strollers, you are taking up too much of it.  Sell at least one of those squalling snot machines you’ve popped out and make room in the grocery store aisle for the rest of us.

My garden, the result of two decades of grubbing and ruined manicures, looks swell this year, despite a statewide drought.  Purple seems to be the overriding theme with irises that I transplanted loving their new home

“City Light” iris. Wowza.

Limonium, taking no prisoners and kicking horticultural ass.

and a tough ass piece called limonium, the dried purple flowers of which, statice, are the filler of choice for florists around the world.  It does fine every year, but occasionally decides that this is going to be a “Say-Something” season and this year is just that.  The lily looking plants next to it are crocosmia, which bloom with bright orange flowers that look splendid with the purple statice on those years when they both bloom simultaneously, but this is not one of those years.  That’s how gardens roll.

Springtime in the French Quarter

My favorite neon in New Orleans.

I breezed down to New Orleans to check on the renovation of my house there and to check in on our old chum Magda.   The house is doing fine; Magda less so.  He will shortly have been incarcerated in the hospital system for a month and the doctors still have no clear idea about what’s causing his blood pressure and blood chemistry to roller coaster up and down and seem to regard this ignorance with a jaunty insouciance.

I was not much help while there; I was sort of unprepared for how much the whole experience of visiting the hospital would drag up visions of  R Man’s last uncomfortable days.  I know that’s selfish, but it was a very visceral reaction and one I could not get on top of.  I am ashamed.

The front porch of my soon-to-be ex-house. I would weep, but I have no tears.

Less traumatic than an old friend’s fragile health, but still pretty upsetting, is the news from my tax guy and my financial guy that my merry eviscerating of the IRAs I was living off of in order to finance the New Orleans’ renovation has actually moved me into a higher tax bracket, the rapacious taxes of which mean I will have to sell the house in order to pay the bill.  Irony.  I hate it.

New Orleans Keeps on Keeping On

Remember when I said I was afraid to come to New Orleans since every time I did so, the estimate for the completion date of the renovation of my house here slips back a little farther?  Well, if you paid a little attention, you’d remember.  Anyway, sure enough I got here last night and less than 24 hours later, Sister Mary Legs in the Air broke the news that the newest deadline is May 24. When I was here in January, it was “the end of April.”  Adding an element of specificity does not fool me; this house will never know my loving touch.

Again, it’s my own fault for slipping into town, but honestly I had to.  Our dearest old chum, Magda, is ensconced in the hospital right now with his blood chemistry all whacked out.  I was trying to be helpful at a delicious lunch today with Magda’s boyfriend after we had spent the morning with the old thing and saying how important phosphorus was to the body’s function, which might or might not be true, but what I was trying to say was “potassium” not “phosphorous.”  Yeah, that’s what you need girl, get your phosphorous up and we’ll light you like a torch.  No wonder no one takes me seriously.

Truly, though, it’s troubling to see someone sick who’s closer to my heart than the riff raft I’m related to by blood even if we did share an amusing afternoon swapping stories about phlebotomists and catheters.  If ever there was a convincing argument for euthanasia, it’s two old queens who have a connoisseur’s insight into emergency rooms.

So is this the kind of shenanigans that are holding up the renovation of my house?  

If so, they’re going on without me and I RESENT IT.

In Which mrpeenee Shares

My new favorite pretend boyfriend, Denis Vega.  Or Vegas.  Apparently it depends on how much room they have in the text box.

Also, my ongoing well of angst, my house in New Orleans, aka The Reno that Wouldn’t Die

Word reaches us that now the project will not be finished until the end of April.  And that with the word “probably” ominously tucked onto the end of the prophesy.   As I told dear, dear Diane von Austinburg, let us look away from unhappy little face.  I’m going down at the end of March, although I’m sort of leery since every time I show up, the deadline slips back another month or so.

Is it any wonder I seek solace in the arms of porn?  Is it?

Also, if you haven’t been tuning into the marvelous tumblr Goldenfleecing, do so right away.  They’re having a special on redheads, a Gingerfest.