So…tired…. Must…wash…off…glitter.

Pics tomorrow. Now, sleep. Sleep, poppies, sleep….

It’s almost over. One more low-key party tonight for Orpheus, then tomorrow morning’s open house for the Society of St. Anne, followed by a long but festive walk to Canal Street for the Rex and Zulu parades. After that, I’ll have a farewell-to-the-flesh cocktail at some local dive, unlace the knee-high boots, pin the wig and mantilla back on the styrofoam, and settle in for an evening of playing video games and watching the oh-so-WASPy, oh-so-creepy meeting of the courts of Rex and Comus that signals the official end of Carnival in New Orleans.

As exhausting as it sounds, there’s a certain pride many of us take in not just enduring the grueling Carnival season, but truly enjoying it. My pal Elizabeth summed the sentiment far better than I could in an email she sent out last night after a busy night of Bacchus parading and juking to the Go-Gos at House of Blues:

so it’s 2am mardi gras weekend and apparently there was a superbowl? but who cares because though i’ve been under the weather since friday, i rallied to haul myself down to the house of blues where i danced for 1 1/2 hours to the GO-GO’S!!!!

…my ears are ringing, my throat is hoarse and i still have a costume to construct tomorrow….but unlike many of you poor slobs, i have lundi gras off to recover and sew….

so drink up all you new england fans…i’m not jealous of you, even if my home team never makes it to the superbowl. it’s 74 degrees here, i’m off work till next monday and i’m sure my “barfly” costume is cooler than your painted hairy chest that you displayed on tv tonight for all of america to admire.

To the Mary from South Beach working out at the gym last night with his nellynelly friend in the teal bike shorts and matching tank: when you’re talking about the parade, it’s pronounced “HER-mees” (like “herpes”), not “er-MEZ” (like, well, Hermès).

Gay, gay, gay, gay, gay….

FIVE REASONS FRANK RICH SHOULD MARRY ME

1. I’d let him intellectually top me every day–twice daily on weekends.

2. I love to entertain guests, and my silver pattern is very stylish.

3. We both love theatre, secular humanism, and Jon Stewart (whom we might be able to cajole into a three-way).

4. Since the marriage wouldn’t be legally binding, he’d be able to return to his wife and kids if things didn’t, you know, work out.

5. My boyfriend could use some quiet time.

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Yours truly in haughty genderfuck operalady drag before last night’s St. Brigid Ball:

Yours truly completely schnockered on bourbon and cheap schnapps (is there any other kind?), stripped to a decade-old swimmer’s jock and some sock garters after last night’s St. Brigid Ball.

Is it just me, or was Paula Abdul completely whacked on The Daily Show last night? Perhaps America’s second-favorite diminutive choreographer (after Toni Basil, of course) should use her freakishly large mouth for consuming something other than Night Train and ecstasy.

Exxon Mobil announces highest profits in the company’s history, equal to the gross domestic product of Luxembourg.

—The Guardian

Luxembourg, which now offers customers a free 42-ounce beverage with every fill-up, was thrilled with the news, saying “This is the first time we’ve made headlines since that sodomite arrived at the American embassy!” The country then gave reporters the key to the men’s room, which is generally available to customers only.

It’s 5:30am. In an hour and a half, I’ll be dangling from the ceiling of the Municipal Auditorium, hanging crepe de chine streamers and silk swags for tonight’s ball. Why do I risk my life in the service of such faggotry? For the unabashed glamour of it all, of course. Well, that, and because I’m a faggot.

The most shocking thing in this article is not that Deborah/Debbie Gibson has doffed her high-80s porkpie to reveal a different sort of pie in Playboy, nor is it that Tiffany did the same not so long ago (however did we miss that?).

No, the most shocking thing in that article is that bitch claims she’s 34.

What the…? What in the name of all that is good and holy are you doing here? You and your slack, slack jaw had best be getting over to Goodwill or Red White and Blue, or–and goddess, I’d love you for this–Freddy’s to find me full-length formal skirt and a new goddamn corset! I have three balls–count ’em: three!–over the next week, and not a stitch to wear! Now I know how poor Widow Hubbard felt when she opened the door to her empty armoire or pie safe or whatever it was….

You there, the snickering one with the glasses and the tired Urban Outfitters t-shirt: having three balls, whether formal or scrotal, is no laughing matter. Having only one–now that’s a tragedy.

And FYI, if any of you would care to accompany the boyfriend and me to two of these–the Mystic Krewe of Satyricon’s Bal Masque on Sunday or the Radical Faerie Coronation Ball next Wednesday–do let us know. <nellyvoice>I’m sure sssssomething can be…arranged.</nellyvoice>