mixed messages May 8, 2006
Jazz Fest second weekend impressions:
Chris Cressionnie with half of a globe on his head (the bottom half, turned upside down), dancing on a step-ladder to Frankie Ford, who he came especially to see. Frankie telling drunken lounge-lizard jokes, in the “good evening ladies and germs” tradition. Frankie performing his old hit 45s at 33 rpm speed. His suit was a shade of yellow that I have never seen before.
Bobby Lounge - Let ‘em lock me in Angola, if that’s the way it is; Take me back to Abita Springs; I want a ten-foot woman; singing about his morning boner. Except for the morning boner, Bobby Lounge, a native of Mississippi, sings about MY cultural heritage. His nurse, his majordomo, his voice amplified much better than last year and his crowd amplified as well. He was written up by Chris Rose, so that was cache enough right there to draw a crowd in the grandstand courtyard.
Don’s photography exhibit inside the grandstand, with very moving photos, mostly taken after Katrina but some very poignant “before” shots, like Syndey Byrd’s technicolor shot of Fats Domino sitting on his cadillac-finned sofa in his house on Caffin. Makes you think, “oh, my god, that couch is trashed.” And then the next thought, well, Fats Domino’s couch is the least of it! Funny spying Don’s smiling face in the crowd photographed with Ernie K-Doe’s statue on Mardi Gras.
Passing by the stage where Bonarama was playing and Steve spotting the other Marshall family and saying, “let’s move on.”
Lilette being comically slammed, and Jason going around with a terminator-like expression on his face. Avoiding my eyes because he didn’t want to tell us he couldn’t get us a table. Apparently there were a lot of reservations Friday night and the people didn’t show up, so they were unprepared for the absolute river of Jazz Festers who showed up very late on Saturday. The food kept coming, though, and we sat at the bar and ate and drank way too much. Steve had the pleasure of driving the Exploder, fearlessly, heedlessly slamming through potholes and dark neighborhoods with no Audi-angst.
Rachel compulsively text-messaging Steve all day long and then at 3:00 a.m., which made his phone buzz and vibrate on the table every 15 minutes until someone attended to it. I finally woke up and heard it a couple of times and thought someone was calling each time. I frantically woke him up thinking there must be some emergency for someone to call so many times at such an hour. Somewhere in between the buzzing, I dreamed a stern-faced woman was telling me I HAD to wear pants and checking to make sure that I had some to wear.
Feeling tired on Sunday and starting off the day on a wrong foot by getting into an argument with the arrogant guy making coconut palm hats. Getting more energized and relaxed watching the Wild Magnolias. The downpour before Irma Thomas. There was no festival-cancelling lightening or wind, so we all waited it out under umbrellas. Irma came out and sang It’s Raining and then put on a great, energetic and heart-felt show. She was introduced by Ed Bradley, who I love but he should not sing.
Paul Simon giving a very professional and pleasing show on the 20th anniversary of Graceland’s release. He played every bit as well as he always did, but I’m afraid the still vivid memory of the Springsteen performance made Paul, well, fall short in my estimation. It was very disappointing when Quint came out and announced that Fats Domino wasn’t playing. He has been through a lot and I’m glad he’s OK, but damn that would have been great to see Fats at the Fest this year.
A mutual friend who had been very warm and friendly to me last weekend virtually iced me when he saw that I was with Steve and was very unfriendly on Sunday as well. Another woman behaved very oddly and asked me if I was with Steve. She let me know that she knew all about Steve. This was a strange, aggressive exchange, but later she warmed up a little.
Steve seething on Saturday night at dinner and then finally exploding into a white-hot ball of anger at me on Sunday night at dinner. I’ve heard somewhere about these uncomfortable dinners. The experience turned dangerblond’s little spigot of hot and hot running affections right off. I like to make love not war. I brushed it off on Saturday night and we had fun on Sunday at the Fest, but on Sunday night when he lit into me again I quietly gave it right back to him. Not uncharacteristically, he packed up his things and left, making a dramatic exit. I feel like I have given it the old college try. I also feel like my head is raw from beating it against a stone wall. And let ‘em lock me up in Angola, if that’s the way it is.
Protected: pussywhipped mountain March 5, 2006
to the barricades! February 23, 2006
Yesterday, I picked up Steve and we ran over the bridge to TJ’s Carnival & Bingo Supply. I had arranged to pick him up as soon as I got out of class at 4:15, so we could beat the bridge traffic. The bridge traffic is tremendous these days because so many people now live on the Best Bank. Another thing different from the way it used to be, and another thing we have all just gotten used to.
I spent the day in classes absolutely squirming to get out of there, and it looked like everyone else was doing the same thing. In Prof. C’s class, as he was wrapping up, at exactly 4:15, a woman in the back of the class raised her hand and said, “professor, two questions….” These young lawyers knew better than to groan or roll any eyes. Courtesy dictated that we all sat there and listened, laptops still on, bags still zipped shut, Prof. C as professional as ever, until he finally said he would take it up with her after class. Pandemonium as we all ran outside into the beautiful sunshine.
I picked Steve up and we raced for the bridge. We had a surprisingly brief ride. There was a “contraflow” in effect, and traffic was moving toward the West Bank on both of the bridge spans. I don’t remember ever seeing that happening pre-K, but I never used to spend that much time on the West Bank.
TJ’s was an “only in New Orleans” trip, one of those places where you get to go backstage, behind the carnival spectacle, and see the mechanics of how it’s all put on. It was a dark warehouse with shelves full of beads and trinkets, probably made in China, I hope not by slave labor, and absolutely worthless to anyone except a carnival reveler. We grabbed the last few dozen Tucks Toilet beads and stocked up with several cases of long, heavy beads and special stuff for special people. Today’s savvy parade-goer is no longer satisfied with the cheap, short beads, so we didn’t even bother with them. We were very much in the dark about how much treasure we would need, since we have no clue how large the crowd will be in this controversial year. We’ve also heard that the parades are moving very fast because there are not the usual numbers of bands and groups of marchers. I would rather be over-beaded than under-beaded, though. I don’t want to be That Rider who is chintzy with the throws. I remember from when I was Queen that if you end up with a surplus, you can always start throwing handfuls overboard in the last mile.
We picked up some very goofy-looking stuffed animals to throw to kids. We plan to bombard a young visitor from San Francisco with enough stuff to make his parents have to buy another suitcase to get it home. I’m not specifically aware of any other kids to expect along the route, but I’m prepared. It would be fun to see Allison Abercrombie with her brand new little Jackson. I need to prepare a special package of priceless jewels for Meredith, who is an unrepentant bead-whore.
Steve and I then did something that only Tucks members and plumbers have to do - we bought 10 plungers. Later, Michelle Solomon, another Tucks member, dropped off two boxes of the mini-plungers for us. So, babe, we got plungers. I am dying to decorate those plungers, but I have to finish my bustier for Friday. Steve and I are planning to decorate the plungers Friday night, but there is no telling what shape I’ll be in after divinely protecting endangered pleasures all afternoon. He may have to take charge of the plunger assembly line. I only hope I can trust this brilliant and talented architect to decorate the plungers properly. He will have to put his good taste aside, it’s important.
Steve got his first look at the costume factory last night at almost-full tilt. Shannon was here working on her 21st Centurion Diva costume, which looks spectacular. Danny Thomas is in town from Flagstaff, and he was here re-fitting and repairing his Dionysus costume from a few years ago. Shannon is skeptical that I will make it to MOMs after riding in Tucks, and she is anxious that my ticket not go to waste. I sure would like to pull that off. A Mardi Gras Trifecta.
Then I took Steve to dinner at Vega. He has been very apologetic about hurting my feelings, which I really appreciate. He is understandably angry that I put so much personal information and his e-mails on the blog. I explained that I was also very revealing about myself, and I put my own e-mails on the blog, e-mails which now seem to me like the height of foolishness, surpassed only by my stupid breathless phone calls. No one could possibly be more embarassed than I am, but I am getting used to it. When my marriage broke up, I realized, among other things, how much damage I had done to myself by suffering in silence. It had become such a habit for me to hide things and do the “Life of the Party” act that many people still think I am the funniest, happiest person they know. I am funny. I am happy. But when I’m cut, I bleed, and I can no longer afford to just ignore it. I felt like I had no one to talk to. I was cut off from him, the only other person who was there, so much so that I wondered if he had been a hallucination. My friends are all living in the Chocolate City and dealing with some challenging matters in their own lives. Seeing me go from happiness personified to misery incarnate in one day was disconcerting for them. The collective response was something along the lines of “fuck him, you’re too good for him.” It was more complex than that and I needed to sort it out. So, Dangerblond sat alone talking to herself, letting it come out uncensored, and it wasn’t all fun and games. When I’m cut, I bleed, so please pardon my bloody mess.
I have tried very hard to put all of this behind me, enjoy myself and enjoy Steve, but when we started talking about it the tears came. I called to apologize this morning. It’s not at all my intention to make anyone a captive audience to my neurosis. I try so hard not to start crying, because no matter where I am once it starts I can’t stop it. Immediately, I felt every bad thing like it happened yesterday. Thinking of any good thing seemed like a joke. He didn’t seem to mind, telling me that he had been putting in a lot of crying time of his own over Rachel. When I got home, the tears came from somewhere else, way before I ever met Steve. I could hear that voice that’s been with me as long as I can remember, saying, “You’re an idiot to think that anyone could ever love you, especially someone smart, attractive, creative or anything you want. Why don’t you stick with your own kind?”
Thank God, Shannon and Danny came back from dinner and helped me give that voice a good beat-down. Danny started flirting with me and talking about the “beautiful creations” that he has seen “birthed” in my studio. Shannon started saying how much she loves me and how much I have accomplished with so little to start with. By the end of the night, we were all three in agreement that I am a fabulous woman and great catch, let the bidding start.
This morning, while I write this, Katherine is watching Les Miserables on television, the Liam Neeson version. It’s one of the handful of stories that, no matter how many times I read it, see it or sometimes even think about it, brings on the uncontrollable waterworks! No more! No more, I tell you! To the barricades!
categorical imperative February 22, 2006
A massage this morning, followed by a pedicure, while I read about the Categorical Imperative for Jurisprudence. What is it? It’s what we know must be true through reason and empirical evidence. Sounds easier than it is, like a lot of things.
Arrived at home to find an angry e-mail from Steve, who had found Dangerblond’s memoirs and was not happy. I called to tell him that I didn’t intend to hurt him and I was going to tell him about it tonight, then I put passwords on the offending posts. I met him in the Quarter and we went to Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop. He told me that Nick had done a search and found it. I didn’t think he would tell anyone about it before he had read it himself, much less Nick. No one on my end has read it except Meredith and Katherine, who told everyone else to stay away, more information than you want to know about a 45-year-old woman’s fucked up love life.
He said he really wasn’t angry, he just wanted certain things he had told me about others kept private. Apparently, my sad little tale came off angrier than I meant it, so Rachel thought I was going to shoot him. To me it was just sad, which was how I felt on the days when I wrote it. But time passes and feelings change. It was a chronicle of my feelings in the order in which I had them, written on some days in early February that have now passed. I thought it was too much of an interesting cycle of events to not explore it, especially since I didn’t really know how I felt about it until I finished writing it. It was more about my writing it than other people reading it. It was honest, and once it was done I didn’t want to change it.
I don’t mind if no one else ever reads it, but I thought the leading man should know what was in it. When I started writing about my strong feelings for Steve, I felt like Richard Dreyfus, staring at his mountain of mashed potatoes and saying, “This. Means. Something.” It doesn’t mean anything to anyone except me, and it’s now hidden behind passwords.
He was upset that I thought he had only answered my e-mail because I asked him to join me in Tucks. I did not think that. I told him that if I wasn’t an athiest, I would have gotten down on my knees and thanked Jesus that he answered my e-mail. I wanted very much for him to respond to me. I wanted him to be the nice guy I first met, but I had to be prepared for other possibilities. Mr. Las Vegas Voice was one of them. I know very well that I could have sent him an e-mail without mentioning anything about the parade, but I wanted to get Mr. Las Vegas Voice on the run. It worked. He was not there today. And I couldn’t have known it for sure until I saw him. I asked Steve if he would ever have contacted me if I hadn’t written. Yes. When? “When I was sure your anger had faded.” A very Don Marshallian response. In the absence of a categorical imperative, I’ve made sure that I will never know. My motivation? To make some good memories of him in the hopes of driving out the smell of Mock Orange. To not feel like I am a fool.
I would also like to see him smile, and have a good time. I liked being with him. He looked really good. My attraction to him has not dimmed at all. He asked me if I really thought he was prissy. “Sometimes. Not right now.” He seemed depressed, but there was excitement about a project with his brother and about his new place in San Francisco. He’s being the same kind of supportive friend to Rachel that Don is to me. He says they are not going to get back together, but I told him that things can change on a dime in this story. I also predict he will smooth things over with Nick in his own time.
The thing is this: The opposite of love is not hate, or anger. It’s indifference. Love isn’t over when you get angry, and it isn’t over when you speak or act with hatred. Love is over when you don’t care. And I still care.
perpetual blues machine February 18, 2006
Katherine left last night for a weekend in Las Vegas with her old roommate from college and family. We finally got our grades from the Houstola semester and we both did surprisingly well, considering that we were freaked out, missing our home, worried about our friends and family, living on food stamps and half-bombed on Martini’s the whole time. I got a B in Con Law, and I honestly can’t tell you the first thing. She’s doing great, and I love watching her make her way. She’s a very together young woman.
While she is gone, the house will be given over to costuming. Meredith and Susan are coming over this weekend to bead bustiers. Shannon and Josh will probably make special guest appearances. There is a daytime parade today, but I’m not going because I’d rather work on my bustier. I’m marinating an idea called “Perpetual Blues Machine.” Of course, it involves blue tarp, which I am now obsessed with. I think I’m finished with the flo-glo orange webbing, though.
Speaking of tarps, the same video of Don and me on the fashion-show runway must have played on all the local channels, because numerous fans have called and e-mailed. First, you see the great-looking blonde drag queen who no one realized was a drag queen. She’s wearing this big blue tarp skirt. Then, you see Don from behind, with his fringe showing. Don looks GREAT, it’s hysterical. It looks like he has been modeling for years. He’s pointing his fingers at people, like he has guns. What a nut. Then, you see me, walking toward the camera with cape, then opening cape and turning around. The back of the cape looks totally cool. NOW let’s see if Hollywood finally calls!
Lines of communication with Steve have reopened on my initiative. It feels better. I invited him to ride in Tucks, since Wendel still had open spots on the new super-float Naughty Ham. I’m not really sure why I did it. That will need marinating, too. Perhaps just because I want to see him, perhaps because I want him to better know who I really am, or perhaps I’m again casting my pearls before swine. Ever since I met the man, I have wanted to make sure he had an unforgettable Mardi Gras, and maybe it’s as simple as that. I just hate this jolt I get now and then of having my good feelings about him suddenly and without warning get overrun with a VERY bad sense-memory. I have been apprehensive about hearing his voice, in case that other, mean old man is still there. That old man freaks me OUT. Steve’s e-mails have been very nice and apologetic, but he would do no less after I have invited him to ride in a major Mardi Gras parade. He says we have a lot to talk about, and I’m apprehensive about that, too, because of the same sense-memory problem. Going over the past sounds as appealing as going to the gynecologist, and that’s a shame because so much of it was fun. He has no idea how easy it is to make me cry, because he was always doing just the opposite. Having strong feelings sometimes seems like a curse, but, it’s better being an artist than being a bean-counter. I just have to pull through it because silence is invariably misinterpreted.
So, my carnival schedule will consist of the following items: Friday is the 5th Annual DIVA Day Luncheon at Arnaud’s with the Divine Protectors of Endangered Pleasures; Saturday afternoon is the Krewe of Tucks Parade; Saturday night is the MOMs Ball; Sunday night is watching Bacchus (maybe); Monday is either a wild card or a day of rest. Mardi Gras Day starts with an early morning party at Shannon’s. I’m making brandy-skim-milk punch. And then we’ll march with St. Anne’s into the Quarter. I want to do the whole nine yards with St. Anne’s this year and go to the river, rain or shine. After all that’s happened here, I feel a strong need to lay down my worries down by the river side. As usual, it’ll be an early one. When the sun goes down, I’ll be at home.
Tell me why you wanna be so cold
Why you wanna be so mean
You’ve gone and let your true colors show
You’re a perpetual blues machine
