At this time of year, I’m usually roaming the aisles of Robert’s Supermarket, stocking up on food, water, Purple Haze, and other necessities. That’s not for reasons of storm preparedness–I’m a grade-A procrastinator as far as that’s concerned. No, I stock up so I can barricade myself in our makeshift panic room (i.e. a bedroom equipped with an Xbox) and hide from the homosexual hordes that invade our fair city much as Ghengis Khan’s motley crew stormed Samarkand–only Miss Khan probably smelled better. And she’d never be caught in aquamarine hot pants.
This year, however, is different. This year, Southern Decadence is a homecoming, of sorts. This year, we have an excuse to celebrate (as if we ever need one). And frankly, after 12+ months without many tourists, I’m kinda looking forward to yelling at idiots at once again. Besides, there aren’t any Robert’s to roam, anyway–at least not in my ‘hood.
That’s not to say I’m gonna be all slung up in the middle of the Fruit Loop, shakin’ my money-maker with my gay brethren from Atlantahoustondallas. That’s not even to say I’m gonna set foot on the street. But when Greg and his longtime boyfriend Xavier start a screaming match at 3:00am in front of my house because Greg wants to bring home a hustler or because Xavier accidentally flushed the ‘tina down the toilet, I may not yell quite so loudly for ’em to pipe down.
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