Secret Agent Fred and I are back in New Orleans, living the high life. Fred is, anyway. We got here at midnight last night and he has already snagged more pussy than I have in the last three years. Not that I mind, of course not. One has to admire both his talent and his dedication.
The nominal reason for the trip is shopping; I have realized that if I wait until the house renovation here is finished and then try to fit out the whole place at once, I’d be just overwhelmed. Plus I like decorating. Also, I wanted some shrimp.
It seems our appearance brought with it a tremendous storm. I grew up with these Gulf Coast downpours and even I am impressed. And wet. Fred wanted to know if I planned on going out tonight. Go out in a drowning downpour to visit tired gay bars I didn’t like that much thirty years ago? No thanks.
We stopped by my house to get a peek at the work wrought on it so far. The roof has been replaced and all the nasty, stinky old plaster and lath walls have been ripped out, great progress. Less thrilling was the revelation that termites had eaten so much of the studs, the only thing holding the whole place up was inertia and love of Baby Jesus. The crew is just about finished with replacing all the studs in the house.
That means the roof, the wiring, the sill and all the interior walls of the house I bought three months ago are now gone, so what’s left is pretty much the siding and the ground the place sits on. This just in: some of the siding has to be replaced. I’m beginning to believe that soon I will only own the concept of a house here.
On the bright side, Sister Mary Legs in the Air is leading a charge into renovation that is nothing short of inspiring. When he’s through with it, the whole place will be snug and solid. And pretty much rebuilt from scratch.
Oh well, I am a mere vessel, facilitating the spread of Fred’s slutty reign over New Orleans. And I plan on shrimp for lunch tomorrow, so, you know, yay.