Sent to the friendly–if daft–folks at the Freedom Quarter Union:

I’m so proud so see so many of my fellow New Orleanians criticizing the French for their reluctance to support war with Iraq. After all, we helped them over half a century ago–shouldn’t they be indebted to us for the rest of their lives? How dare they question the means and motives of a man we very nearly elected to serve as president of our country–even if those motives are entirely suspect! How dare they think for themselves during this time of excruciatingly complex global politics! Why can’t the French be more like Americans, willing to follow blindly the greatest malaprop on the planet into a ghastly war that may or may not (probably not) lead to increased national security? Why shouldn’t we, the people of New Orleans, act foolishly over this international incident that will probably be forgotten in another 12 months–even if it means we’re forced to live with the consequences for the rest of our lives?

You and your fellow protesters are a credit to New Orleans and its extraordinary public school system.

Perhaps some of you would also like to drop them a line let them know how you feel? (Link provided on the condition that you feel the same way I do.)

Lick me. Go ahead, I give you permission. You wanna taste of forearm? My sleeve is rolled up just for you, baby. (Well, there’s also the fact that I can’t stand the feel of a shirtsleeve on my wrist, but whatever.) Someone can get at the back of my neck. And if any of you are kinda fetishy, you can lap at my left ankle where the elastic in my crew sock has gone south….

Well, how do you like it? How’s that bouquet? …Really? Funny, I figured you’d say that.

Bitter.

As for Carnival:

Yes, it was all very fabulous.

Yes, I’m glad the tourists (w)hor(d)es are gone–for the most part.

Yes, I gained about 30 pounds from boozing it up and eating lots of doughnuts.

Yes, I know I have to 409 the dryer to clean up all the scarlet dye that spun out of my costume.

Yes, I’m somewhat happy to return to work.

Yes, I wish I had a Tums.

As for everything else:

Yes, I think Ben Affleck is on a long slow death-spiral down the stony end.

Yes, looking at Carrot Top, I often regret that I never took up the blowgun.

Yes, given the chance, I think I could probably take Anna Nicole Smith in a game of badminton.

Yes, I sometimes wish I were raised in something other than the oh-so-ascetic cult of the Southern Baptist.

Yes, my office is surprisingly neat and orderly, considering what I’ve been through lately.

Yes, I realize that the color sage can get monotonous.

Yes, I’ve run out of things to say.

All right, two costumes down, one to go. Let’s go down the checklist for tomorrow:

__ A varied assortment of wigs to accomodate late minute fluctuations in sartorial theme? Check.

__ A pair of knee-high lace-ups, with insole, to protect my fragile little footsies from guttersludge? Check.

__ A splendid array of accessories–including masks, handbags, jewelery, and parasols–to complete the ensemble? Check.

__ A minimum of two choices of outerwear, suitable for any costume choice? Check. Sorta.

__ A can’t-fail forecast for fabulous weather? Not on your goddamn life.

Yo, if you’re in the 504, drop by the house for bloody marys at 10am, followed by the long, glittery walk to Canal Street to see Rex with St. Anne. And for you other area coders…well, try to have a nice day.

You there! The doyenne with the Pantone book and the head full of ideas about what makes a gala invitation fabulous! The agent with the wacky-pet-trick act that you think would fit perfectly into a classical music concert series! The network administrator who thinks you’re doing me a favor by offering to upgrade me to Windows XP Pro! Stay outta my way today…

Grrr.

As a kid, I enjoyed reading. It was probably your typical fledgling-homo-trying-to-escape-reality thing, but whatever: I loved books.

As I got older, I developed a similar fondness for writing. I don’t know where it came from: I just knew I liked it. Even now, I don’t like to analyze it too much for fear I’ll pick it to death. Let’s just say I enjoy the look of words and the sound of language.

When I got to college, things changed. Bad news: I had too much crap to read, and most of it was about as engaging as the small print on my student loan applications. Good news: I began to realize that there were first-rate American writers other than William Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, and Eudora Welty–even folks from (gasp!) outside Mississippi. Among those authors, one of my then-favorites was a now-obscure poetess named Amy Lowell, who penned little diddies like this:

Aubade

As I would free the white almond from the green husk

So I would strip your trappings off,

Beloved.

And fingering the smooth and polished kernel

I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting.

The nice thing about Amy (Ms. Lowell if you’re nasty) was that (a) she wrote beautiful, image-heavy poems (Hello? That’s why she’s considered one of the foremost writers of the Imagist movement?) that often had a bitter, accusatory tone attractive to sophomores, and (b) she was a big-boned, cigar-smoking, combat boot-wearing les-bean, which, as a newly out homosexualist, gave me the wiggles.

Even though I’ve, er, moved on, shall we say, in my literary tastes, every so often, I like to crack open one of Lowell’s oeuvres and peruse a page or two. To be honest, it’s as much about the beauty of her language as it is about me: her poems remind me of the way I used to be, the things I used to like, the way I used to think…. Proust had perfume, I have a 300-pound dyke.

And apparently, I’m not the only one.

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I love Carnival. Okay, I despise the frat-boy/bead-flasher mentality that suffuses the Bourbon Street corridor in the weeks leading up to Fat Tuesday. And I could do without the parking problems caused by Toms, Dicks, and Harrys from Keokuk to Kookamunga driving down “to see the Mardi Gras” in their RVs. But other than that, Carnival’s great fun: the balls, the parties, the parades, the costumes… Here, we can be kids as long as we want.

This morning, thanks to my bio-mom, Callie, I learned that my love of Carnival is hereditary.

Okay, so, like, Emily Post would probably advise that blogging your boyfriend’s blog–epsecially when it’s like the cheerleader/quaterback-popular kind of blog, and yours is just a namby-pamby shadow of an online stickypad, meaning that anyone who’s come to you has already gone to him first–is un peu gauche, but screw it. On the off chance you haven’t perused his site in the past 24 hours, here are two very important bits of news I feel obligated to share:

1. My sister is fucking fierce.

2. Ronald Firbank has risen from the dead, and he’s writing obituaries.

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I always wondered when and how they were gonna make “THIS BAG IS NOT A TOY” into a Mentos-style, pan-lingual icon. Although they could be the signs for “NO SQUARE-WIGGED LARYNGITIC DIVAS ALLOWED” and “PLEASE KEEP FLOWERPOTS OFF TODDLER’S HEADS WHILE SHOPPING AT HOME DEPOT.” Maybe.

I try to be open to other points of view, but people look to you for a decision, and it’s most helpful to make one. Even when you aren’t completely

sure.

— Anna Wintour

Now that’s something you won’t hear on Words from Unity. Truer thoughts were ne’er expressed…