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?

Cough, Cough

In my post The Return of Diane, Muscato impertantly demands details about Diane's visit claiming "We're waiting. Certainly there's enough depravity to recount by this point, no? After the weather we've had here this week, I could use a diversion…"  Tragically, there is no depravity to report; not just because I have turned into a fusty old thing, but mainly because I've been sick the whole time poor Diane's been here.

I developed an interestingly wheezing cough the day she arrived.  I tried to blame her cat in Austin, implying she had imported dander to which I was allergic, but she pooh poohed that with a firm pooh pooh and before I could fabricate any kind of evidence supporting my theory, I was spiraling down an all-too familiar path into our old friend, bronchitis.

I've contracted bronchitis so many times that now when I call my doctor with my self diagnosis, he no longer questions me, but just sends a prescription for antibiotics and probably a short prayer of gratitude that I'm keeping my snotty infection out of his waiting room.

Believe me, this re-enactment couldn't be any farther from the truth if it featured Bea Arthur and Carol Burnett.

The last few years I worked, I wound up with bronchitis each fall and then again at the tail end of every winter.  This, though, is the first time I've fallen for it since I retired, so yay for avoiding the filthy public and mass transit.

The only entertainments we've attempted have all wound up with me pathetically slumped over and coughing vigorously.  Still, the antibiotics have done their wonders and I'm pretty much recuperated tonight: unfortunately, tomorrow is Diane's last day in town,  rats.

The Return of Diane

After many starts and stops, unfortunate oops and errs, our dear friend Diane vonAustinburg finally will be appearing in the skies over San Francisco Wednesday afternoon and shortly thereafter we all will be tucking into a terribly groovy new restaurant based on a Venetian seafood bar.  It's called Pesce, Secret Agent Fred and I are wild for it, but not as wild as a chance to hang with Diane.

She'll be in town for about a week, we will cook, and beat thrift stores to their knees and in general hang out. Several other friends here have already demanded their share of the Diane-ness so her dance card is filling rapidly.  Her only request is that we hit some art installation at Grace Cathedral where some possibly deranged artist has hung 20 miles of colored ribbon from the ceiling.

Reports as they become available, or as I make them up.  Depends.

Things That Lead from One to Another in mrpeenee's Universe

This is one of the driest winters in California history.  Finally, this evening a smallish storm has rolled in and I opened the windows to revel in the pattering, got distracted by the internet and just now realized the house is filed with the pungent aroma of skunk.  What the hell, skunk?  You don't have anything better to do than wander around on the only rainy night this year stinking the place up?  Stupid dumb skunk.

While I was lost in the wonders of the world wide web, I stumbled across a series of references to what many authors claimed were the worst movies ever made, movies worse than the Lindsay Lohen oeuvre, a series by some schmoe named David DeCoteau. The series is called "1313."  I have no idea why they're considered a "series," they seem to have no discernible relation to each other except that the main feature of each is a bunch of attractive young men running around in their underpants.  Sounds good to me.

Here's the trailer from my favorite

Is that great or what?  Plus you know from the trailer that the movie is so bad that you don't need to waste any time actually watching it.  The trailer is sufficient unto itself.

Amazingly, one of the panty bitches was Corey Monteith.  Perhaprs you remember this Monteith person, he's the guy who OD'ed last year.  I only remember it because all the news outlets were slobbering so much about it at the time.  In researching semi-naked men of the 1313 world, I discovered I had completely mistaken just who Corey Monteith is.  Was.

This is Corey Monteith.  He's dead.

This is not Corey Monteith.  He's not dead, but he is who I've been thinking was Monteith all this time. What do you know?

But then I also ran across this, which actually looks funny.

It's on my list.

Up a Tree

During a recent spate of homo decorating madness, I had to move a bed and wound up standing its mattress and box springs on end against a wall, with a quilt bunched on top of it.  It was just temporary (I'm sure some of you were wondering if I planned on leaving it as an Art Statement,) but Saki was so thrilled with climbing up on top of it and hiding out in his new little lair, I left it up for several days.

Actually, that is an outright lie.  I was just too lazy and disorganized to finish the project, so the mattress stayed where it was and Saki got to perch up on it to his heart's content.  When I discovered that I didn't have to share my bed with him because he liked being up in the aerie, I thought about making it permanent, but instead decided to buy the little terror a cat tree.

Cat trees, in case you've missed them by paying too much attention to bootleg copies of East Enders, are those shag carpet covered totem pole affairs that feature so prominently in many lesbian decorating schemes.  I did not want a lesbian influenced look here, so I researched the subject and came up with one that seemed like it would be minimally offensive.  Ta dah:

And truly, it's not bad.  Saki, of course, refuses to have anything to do with it.  The two times I put him, firmly, on top of it, he immediately jumped off with an air of combined disgust and wariness, as if he had barely escaped from an assignation attempt.

Naturally, he is much more attracted to the box it came in.  Ingrate.

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.

That Time of Year

So January 14 was the anniversary of R Man's death.  Several friends, including mrpeenee readers, sent charming, touching emails and some others posted about it on their sites, which I think is unbelievably sweet.  I, on the other hand, completely, totally forgot it, until I read the notes and posts.

I am not good about anniversaries, they seem to not have the significance for me they do other people.  I only remember my birthday, R Man's birthday and the date we met, and that's simply because it was the day before his birthday.  I know our wedding was sometime in the fall only because I remember at the party afterwards the datura on the patio was blooming.  I am one of the few people in America who can never recall the date of Christmas.  I know it's December 24 or 25, but despite a lifetime of being reminded and looking it up (as I did just now,)  I am still never sure which it is, and on some particularly bad years, a suspicion that it might just be December 26 sneaks in.

So the date I lost R Man (cheeky bastard, sneaking off like that.)?  Not a clue.  If I hadn't posted something about here with the specific date when it happened, I would be out of luck.

It's not to say I have "moved on."  I miss him every fucking day, achingly.  It's just, as I told Secret Agent Fred when we were trading widow stories, I don't need a peg (like an anniversary or a sad song) to hang my grief on.  It sits on my shoulder all the time and sometimes it calls my attention to itself and sometimes, mercifully, it doesn't.  The weeks leading up to his death were the worst time in my life, miserable and exhausting and heartbreaking, and I do not need a reminder of them because believe me, I am in no danger of forgetting.

So what was I doing on the anniversary?  I don't know, sleeping, watching porn or detective shows on TV, or obeying Saki's commands; the yoozh.  I have a gorgeous new pair of John Varvatos boots and I'm breaking them in by wearing them around the house and trying to dance in them without actually falling down.  I hope that's what I was doing.