Category Archives: new orleans

Reporting Live from New Orleans, Part 2


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.

On the Prowl


Secret Agent Fred and I walking down Market Street in the Castro, talking the talk: “Nice people call it anal rape….”  What do people overhearing us think?  One wonders.

Fred and I have re-entered the world of The Rock n Roll Lifestyle, which is pretty fabulous, but difficult to accomplish anything in.  I stayed more or less in bed for 20 hours a day for several days over the last weekend, fending off all sorts of attempts to lure me out.  When I finally turned to on Tuesday, I had an astonishing stack of emails and stuff to deal with.  I had seen something from my tax guy that was something about filing an extension.  When I got around to opening the attachment, it turned out I needed to cough up $3,000 to the state by April 15, which was that day.  Luckily I was able to stop squealing long enough to notice I could do it online, and I did.

Fred and I did manage a very productive day last week.  We went out decorating shopping, looking at tile for the bathrooms in New Orleans and then couches.  Tiles were a big success, couches less so.  When did Room and Board turn into an expensive version of Ikea?  The only couch they had that I liked was the one we already have here, and I’m very conscious of the fact I seem to be replicating my house here at the one in New Orleans already, so no.

We also hit a sort of antique mall and found a lovely little orange lamp and then a weird gallery where I found a lithograph we’re both wild about.

When I got them home, I realized they’re perfect in the living room here, goddamit.  This happens a lot, I try to pay attention to the New Orleans house and suddenly I’m redecorating San Francisco.  So very not productive, but now I have lovely addition to my living room.

House Party


Oh, hello, there, how nice to see you again.  I had to dash off to New Orleans last week to meet up with the architect handling the plans of the renovation of my house there.  I was sort of dreading this, in part because my previous experiences with architects have been very much of the “I am an Ayn Rand sized diva and you had best watch out” type of soul withering punishment, and also because I assumed all the ideas I had for revamping the shabby little joint would be kicked to the architectural curb.

Instead, Katherine, Queen of Architects, was supportive and interested, complimentary about my ideas and made all of them work and improved even the most crack pot ones.

So now, demolition is proceeding with speed and my friend Stephen, who is running the project, and whom I think we can refer to as Sister Mary Legs in the Air from now on, is a genius.  He’s very practical and so energetic about getting this crap done, I have to go lie down after watching him dervish around, ripping and tearing and nailing and all kinds of other butch things.

He and my friend Magda whipped up a pair of temporary gates from some scrap fencing in an afternoon.  This was after some riff raft had busted into the house the night I got in town, so some more secure access seemed like a good idea.

I also had dinner with Jason from Night is Half Gone who was down with pneumonia just a couple of weeks ago.  Everyone should go tell him they wish him well, although I have to say the whole story sounded suspect to me.  He just happens to have pneumonia the night my house is burgled and then is up to (not particularly outstanding) dinner and drinks on the town?  Hmmmm.

Anyway, photographic proof:


After.  Or actually, during.  We’ll see about after in a few months.

Also, Saki has sort of tentatively decided the cat tree is not an instrument of torture from the devil.  Sort of.  Yay.

Photographic Proof


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


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.

The Glamorous Life: an Ongoing Report


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:

Reporting Live from New Orleans


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?

The House That Wouldn’t Die


You remember I was trying to buy a house in New Orleans, but the deal went all to hell because the sellers were too greedy?  As I told them to get stuffed, I thought how gratifying it would be to have them come crawling back, the way you fantasize about the cute guy at the bar who rebuffs your very sensible suggestion that he allow you to spooge all over his face.

Imagine my surprise then when that’s exactly what happened (the house, not the spooge faced cute boy.)  My realtor there (who I now think of as She Who Must Be Slapped) forwarded me an email from the sellers’ agent asking if I’d be interested in trying again.  I should mention that I’ve been stalking this house online and I had seen it had gone into contract after I dropped out and then that fell through, so I’m assuming bitter experience made my offer look more appealing.

The final deal came out $15,000 more than I had offered, but that’s still $37,000 less than they were asking so, yay, I win.  We’re supposed to close on Feb. 21, fingers are crossed.

And speaking of my weasely agent, when I called him to say I would accept their offer, he attempted to cover his surprise by saying something like “I’m so glad I reached out to them for you.”  Bitch, I saw the email from them, it was entirely their idea.  I realized when I first met him that I would eventually know the urge to hold him face down in a toilet, I just hadn’t expected it come about so soon.

New Orleans, it’s calling me.



Oops, I forgot to mention after all the drama about trying to buy that house in New Orleans that it didn’t work out.  Oops.  The rapacious sellers simply wanted too much money for a house equipped with an antique electrical system and plumbing that was essentially a bog.

I looked it up just now and it’s back on the market with an increased price tag.  Wow,  just wow.  When I was considering it, the price they were asking was a chunk over comparable places in the neighborhood, so how they’re justifying this is beyond me.  They do mention in the description it has “updated” plumbing, which I assume means they’ve patched up the sewer.

I’m still looking for a place there, but there’s nothing on the market and probably won’t be until after New Year’s.

Maybe I’ll just invest in muscular Australian youths.

Bless Us. Now.


Negotiations on the purchase of the house I want in New Orleans continue, with the sellers unimpressed with my big words or the fact the house is sitting on a potential cholera pit.  I wanted them to come down $35,000 on the price, they came back with an offer of $8,000.  That is not, as the real estate industry would have it, “a lot of movement.”

And I am concerned my realtor may not be the pit bull negotiator one would hope for.  I know this is shallow, but the last time I saw him, he was wearing coral colored jeans and loafers with no socks.  As Super Agent Fred pointed out, he was a short step from wearing a sweater jauntily knotted about his shoulders.  So being fierce at the bargaining table, maybe, probably not.

Just in case, I have decided to create a virtual shrine to various saints and other voodoo whatnots that might be of help.

First up, we have Saint Roch, since the house is on the street named in his honor.  He’s specially invoked against the plague, which is appropriate since I have AIDS and because of the raw sewage hanging around under the house.  He is also sometimes one of the Fourteen Holy Helpers.  I’m charmed by the fact that this is just a part-time gig for him.

He also would appear to be a medieval can-can dancer.  Get it on, girl.

We’re also including an old favorite, Our Lady of Prompt Succor.  This is a title of the Virgin Mary and she is the patroness of New Orleans and Louisiana.  She’s who you turn to when things go bad and you need help in a hurry, and god knows, that happens plenty in New Orleans.  Just as a side note, I’ll admit that I’ve also occasionally been referred to as  Our Lady of Prompt Succor, usually at some bathhouse or the other, but that’s neither here nor there.

Plus she’s a snappy dresser.

St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes is on the list, as he on plenty of others, just in case.

Besides he’s kind of humpy.

Lastly, Saint Justin of DeRoy cause look how clear his skin is.  Right?