News from Austin.

I'm hiding out at Diane VonAustinberg's for a few days as part of my 2013 World Peace and Enchilada Tour, which will also include a flying visit to my family in Houston and a longer one to New Orleans as a reward for putting up with the flying monkeys that comprise my beloved relatives.

Diane is,of course, the consumate hostess, aside from trying to kill me on her treadmill by luring me up on it backwards, like some crazed OK Go video.*  We had delicious Mexican food tonight and look forward to tearing it up in various thrift shops tomorrow.  The thrill of other people's discarded crap!

*DVonA says:  I did nothing to lure Mr. P onto the treadmill ("I'm really getting quite good at this" he says, just before slipping off the end. "Except now I'm sort of dizzy.").  I have done nothing but give him excellent directions to my house, which he ignored and which resulted in him taking an hour-long tour of the Texas hill country. Now, back to Mr. P.

Lies, all lies.  Although I am sort of dizzy.  Maybe I should go lay down.  Also, when I demanded candy to assist in the creative process, Diane denied having any and offered dried apples instead.  How am I supposed to sling wit and wisdom with dried up apples?

Possibly more travel bulletins as they occur.

Wakie, Wakie.

About 3:00 AM the other night, I was drifting in that very pleasant twilight that combining a clean conscience with vicodin leads to and was heading towards snoozumsland when a dark figure appeared in my bedroom door and announced "PSST. Psst. Psst. Psssssst."

After I had finished screaming like a small, scared girl gifted with oversized lungs, I realized it was a drunken Secret Agent Fred.  Fred and our friend Stuart had last been seen hours earlier at some grimy Castro area bar and I had thought he was going to go back to his own house since a) that's where he and Stuart were staying and b) that's what he had said they were going to do.

Back in my boudoir, we traded bon mots consisting of tipsy giggles on Fred's part and threats of immediate, painful mayhem on mine.  I sent him off to his bedroom and lay seething in bed wondering how my cat Saki can leave everyone who comes to Thanksgiving dinner bleeding but can't guard me from one drunk poofter.

Fred was apologetic, sort of, the next day, although he did lean still towards the giggly, and asked why he had woken me.  I reminded him that after I had explained I was going to find a baseball bat and cave his skull in, the conversation had just petered out, so now we'll never know.  Pity really.  I mean, when the cops arrest me for manslaughter, isn't that going to be one of the first question they ask, too?

Fred wound up sleeping for 36 hours during which Stuart, who is visiting from Baltimore, moved out of Fred's place and into a schmancy hotel here because he had no idea what had happened to Fred and had started entertaining visions of visits to the morgue, poor thing.  Also, Fred lost his phone, AGAIN, during his drunken spree which almost makes up for scaring me, but I still plan on dropping Saki on his head the next time I find him unconscious.  Sleep with one eye open, bitch.

Why can't something like this appear late at night in my bedroom?  With a can of cashews?

Hoofing It Down to the Land of Dreamy Dreams

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?