It should go without saying that I am thoroughly retarded. I am also a misanthrope, a liar, and an all-talk-no-actioner. I am just this side of being a total douchebag. I will tell you why.

This is a big weekend in New Orleans: Southern Decadence, a four-day homo pow-wow that rivals Mardi Gras for parties and special events and generally interesting street fare, including quite a lot of eye candy. Admittedly, I’m not the sort of person who really digs getting slung up in a big ol’ crowd of gay men, but Decadence is pretty fun. And besides, I like to think that I’m a vaguely social guy.

I am fully delusional.

On Friday night, Jonno and I went out to eat with friends — a social act, and a nice way to kick off the weekend. Yay for me. But afterward, I purposely dodged a house party because I knew it’d be crowded and full of fellow homosexualists and the just sort of thing to drive me crazy. Instead, I popped into the Golden Lantern for a bad drag show, which was no better, because as you might expect, several hundred other people had the same idea. I lasted ten minutes. Then I headed to the annual block party at the Phoenix, which I knew would also be crowded, but it’s outside, so my homoagoraphobia isn’t so goddamn crippling. (Plus, like I said: the eye candy. Oh, the eye candy.) And yet, half an hour later, I was ready to go.

(NB: it rained off and on Friday night, and every time a little wave of precipitation came through, the queens at the Phoenix would run for cover. Which would make sense if they were all West Hollywood-ized with shaggy hair and inch-thick foundation, but the people at that party are always bears and leather men. They wear jeans and, occasionally, harnesses. They are not known for elaborate hairstyles, at least above the neckline. So what’s the big deal getting wet, ladies?)

Anyway. Last night, Saturday night, I decided I was going to head out on the town and enjoy myself — not necessarily with The Gayz, but still in the Quarter, to see a rock show at One Eyed Jacks. Instead, I got sidetracked. Not by another party, not by friends dragging me to some fabulous thing, but by fonts. FONTS. I’m doing a website redesign, and I got obsessed with tweaking the typeface. Before I knew it, it was 1:00am. I packed it in and went to bed.

But enough of that: I’m turning over a new leaf. Today, I’m heading out to document the shenanigans come hell or high water (a phrase we don’t take lightly in New Orleans). For those who’ve never been to Southern Decadence, Sunday is the big day — the day of the parade. It’s a seething, sibilant mass of homosexuality, thousands upon thousands of boy-kissers drinking and flirting and throwing glitter on anything that moves. It alone is worth the trip. If I can’t drag my ass out of the house for that shit, somebody ought to book me into a retirement community in Boca.