A while.

Mar. 2nd, 2009 10:30 pm
fr_defenestrato: (Default)
I've been fairly scarce on LJ since my first full day at Carnivale in Nwalins. There are many reasons and no reason for this. This is meant to be a very generic catch-up post.

First, Carnivale was mostly great. I drank a hundred cocktails and sucked a hundred cocks. Well, ok, not that many cocks. Probably not that many cocktails, either, but close. After spending way too much money in the first two days at Corner Pocket—a surfeit of wallet-surfing hustler boys, several of whom Maestro and got to be fairly friendly with; four dancers from Taboo in Montréal, for example, one of whom French braided my hair on Friday night; we bought drinks and, thus, their continued attentions—we mostly stuck to the quartet of bars around Bourbon and Ste. Anne: Lafitte's, Oz, The Pub, and Good Friends. I got my suck on pretty nicely on Sunday but felt I could be doing it better: so Sunday night I swallowed half a tab of Viagra, put on my orange jock, and headed out. Had a spectacular time in the upstairs backroom at Lafittes: had my dick out and hard, but it was just bait to lure along other dicks that I could play with. Fellated a small batch of guys, the last of which was rrrrruff! hot and perfectly content to hang out tumescent in my mouth for a good long time. I have no notion it was he who stole my wallet, but I suppose it might have been.

Called the police from the room; waited for a callback. Called my credit card company and reported a stolen card. Luckily I had very little money in my wallet, but of course it meant I had no way to get to what money, real or plastic, I had left for the vacation. Also no clue how to get on the return flight without ID, so Maestro called Fabian and asked him to stop by my place, pick up my passport, and FedEx it for priority delivery Tuesday.

Of course, Tuesday was Mardi Gras, and that really does count as a holiday in NOLA. We learnt this by calling FedEx national to track the package: no delivery from the NOLA FedEx distribution center. Maestro sprang for a cab ride, 9 miles and $35 each way, and we picked up my passport. We had an early night out and an extremely early flight Wednesday morning.

So Wednesday was Ash Wednesday, and while I have absolutely no inclination to rethink my lack of religious belief, it began, in the weeks leading up to Carnivale, to strike me that I might could use a break from the consumption of alcohol. So I'm dry for Lent. It's a silly excuse, I know, but still a good idea. Today was the sixth day and I'm doing ok. I'm finding myself declining or even canceling a bunch of invitations and engagements, including several IMs from my friend Tritelli last Thursday exhorting, wheedling, cajoling, beseeching me to accompany him to Secrets. Worse, I think I cannot attend the NYC gathering of old PennBO balalaika types the weekend after next, because I can't see myself partying with these folks without partying. Sigh.

The Wire Season 3 is magnificent on second viewing. The end of the Avon Barksdale/Stringer Bell tale is positively Shakespearean in scope and depth. Wow. And, goddammit, I love Bunny Colvin. I'm pausing before a second run through Season 4.
fr_defenestrato: (Default)

0223091222.jpg
Originally uploaded by fr_defenestrato.
Dancers @ noon @ Oz.
fr_defenestrato: (Default)

downsized_0223091105.jpg
Originally uploaded by fr_defenestrato.
Je ne crois pas en Dieu. Je n'espère pas en Dieu. Je n'aime point. Je ne veux ni vivre ni mourir pour Dieu.

Hey, Dieu, where's my damn wallet? Huh? Huh?
fr_defenestrato: (stripper drawing)
So the first night was faboo: after napping at the hotel, Maestro and I went out and foraged, stopping by Kelley's Deli for po-boys before heading to the Queer Sixteenth of the French Quarter. This bartender, who looks precisely the same as when I shot that picture in 2002—and looks like he could be Lord Gig's kid brother—greeted us at Oz along with five or so hot dancers. We had a couple beers and headed to Good Friends, where, upstairs at the Queen's Head Pub (yes. rly.) just a few patrons and staff were hanging, along with a formidably built, tanned, 40ish naked guy, who immediately came over to us and put our hands on his butt. His name was Tony, he said, and somebody had stolen his shorts, and just how was he going to get from here to Lafitte's where, an hour hence, he was scheduled to start dancing? It was schtick, of course, and he extorted a couple sawbucks off me to give Maestro and me a private dance that entailed taking my dick out and making it dance, and ended, if not with us coming on his chest, in any case with him asking for such with a practiced earnestness that got my taint at least thinking about it. Ooops. Sorry I forgot to do this; I was on my way to breakfast and in a hurry. NSFW. )
fr_defenestrato: (NOLApride)
After a busy but non-critical Wednesday working from home and a good Cheese Lord rehearsal and a lot of packing and logistics and about 1.5 hours of sleep, I got up at 5 a.m. and met Maestro at the Maestro. We landed in Nwalins circa 10:30, shuttled to French Quarter Suites, had lunch at Clover Grill and one extra-spicy bloody Mary apiece at Lafitte, and here we are, settled in, windows open and incense burning, wireless issues worked out, feeling nappish.

Maybe parades tonight but more likely tomorrow or Saturday night. I need cups: my stash from 2000 and 2001 has dwindled down to two, and they're both decrepit and used solely for cat-feeding and -watering at this point.

The plane ride entailed the third instance in my life of intense altitude/cabin pressure-related pain: the first time was in one knee; the second clearly centered in one jaw; this time a precise spot in my sinuses was fucking with the left side of my head, cheekbone to occiput, enough to make me cry. In all three cases the pain commenced at or near peak altitude and disappeared immediately and completely upon descent. I need to do some web research and find out what the fuck.

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