Loquacious reticence at Death's door: My inner monologue takes hostages

4:20 AM.

What a ridiculous time to be awake when one isn't having any fun.
Here I am fried out of my mind on cold medicine and bored out of my skull. It's like I am trapped in some Quay brothers film.

I fear my cold meds have decided to abandon me at my hour of need- I am sure that my once close relationship with Neo-synephrine is destined soon to be severed. Ha. Snake oil. What kind of name is that for a medication anyway? I prefer names with a punch to them. "Nostrilla" for example, or "Boniva", perfectly descriptive names for the malady they treat.

And besides, those names have have a ring to them- they could quite easily be a proper name in the south. "Well hello Countess, may I present Nostrilla and her sister Boniva?" Charming. Neo-Synephrine indeed. Neal Synephrine, Neely O'Hara-Synephrine. Oh my beautiful dolls...

*Sigh* I am practically on deaths door, (which is surprisingly less ornate in style and scale than one would imagine) in the middle of the night- well the middle for me- and literally drowning in a sea of snot and bad puns.

Why do they call it a "cold" anyway? I am actually kind of overheated, right now. Maybe they should call it "Catching the Hots" instead... no, that sounds a touch obscene...

My Grandmother, Miz Hyacinth, used to have the best remedy for a particularly nasty cold-

Directions: Drink one bottle of the absolute best champagne you have handy, repeat as needed every hour.

Caution: Exceeding recommended dosage may lead to extreme giddiness, drunk dialing, and a strong urge to break out the Mario Lanza records and flounce around the house in ones prettiest penoir until passing out.

Of course it does nothing to cure the cold, but it gives the sickness a sort of histrionic quality....

Will you sit down please? You have been flailing around like a crippled windmill all night. No I do not want to play cards- especially whist.

I was having the most perfectly lovely dream about dear Hyacinth earlier, she had all of those rather large and unnervingly half humanoid porcelain figures of the characters of the Chinese zodiac lined up like bowling pins and was trying for a strike with the King Charles spaniel. She was a firm believer in things like the zodiac- Chinese or otherwise- and at an early age she informed me that I was a Ox- because of the year I was born naturally- and given the month of my birth, December, I was a combination Sagittarius/Ox.
Great thing that, apparently.. wait, since you are up, will you go over to that cabinet and grab a few bottle of Clos du Mesnil '95 and put them on ice? There's a lamb. No, the other cabinet, the Renaissance revival piece. No that's a 17th century bonnetiere, - well, yes it it very well may be a Homme Debout but lets not split hairs about that right now. Yes the cabinet with the painting over it of the rather tubercular saint. Yes, it does look like Thomas Jefferson after a bender... Can I please continue my train of thought? You are trying to derail the choo-choo here.
So, where was I? Oh yes, my untimely demise. *sigh* I feel like the Wreck of the Hesperus. How do I look? Of course I do, I have always thought that I would have had a most promising second career as a chronic yet picturesque invalid. I suppose that sort of thing fell out of fashion after the reign of Victoria didn't it? Pity. I feel so bad maybe I should just end it all- no I am too lazy to commit suicide- passive suicide is another thing all together, death by good living and like that. Oh sure, living well can kill you. I wonder if eating "natural foods" leads to dying a natural death? hmmm, well you know even housework can kill you if you do it right.

Anyway, having your health is the thing now- what's the quote? Something about healths price is "far above rubies." What? oh. that's right. That quote is about a virtuous woman... well, you get the idea.

One of the madness that distinguishes this century from the first is it's almost universal passion for exercise and robust health. You would think that the love of sport that young men and women carry from their school days into their adult lives would wain a bit after some time on the hot pursuit of a career and marriage. One in the previous century would abandon the effort all together after their first mortgage or the birth of their first child.

Pop open a bottle will you? No glasses handy? No don't get up, we can just drink it out of these communion chalices. Hmm? yes, they are real stones- no cheap rhinestones for the for the cup that holds the blood of Christ you know. What? Yes, I suppose it is sacrilegious, but it would be worse if we were drinking a lesser vintage don't you think? What? yes it is good isn't it? Like the tears of neglected children...

Oh, speaking of the profane and muscle, did you see Father Fuque at the King's party? Yes he always looks hot. Steroids probably- yeah, me neither, whatever it takes. Hmm? Oh yes that is his photo there on the piano... Yes he does cut quite a figure in his priest garb doesn't he? What? Oh that's be behind him -under his robe. Yes, well I was pretending he was an antique camera. What a wide angle lens he has... What? Oh nothing...
You know, if I make it through the night I will see him at the gym next week I will tell him you said hello.

What to do, what to do, let's see, I have updated my address book, alphabetized the liquor bottles, found Jesus, (He was hiding behind the little French settee all the time) and created an interpretive dance to the tune of "Bei Mir Bist Du Schon" *sigh* So, where are those cards? How about a few hands of Whist?

Cheers.

Classic Champagne Cocktail
3 oz Champagne

1/3 oz cognac

2 dashes Angostura® bitters

1 tsp sugar
Soak one sugar cube in a champagne flute with angostura bitters. Add champagne and cognac. Squeeze in a twist of lemon and discard. Garnish with half a slice of orange.

Use mid-price Champagne please. If you use the good stuff to make this cocktail people will question your breeding...

Of Rising Metaphors and Rococogasms

"Busy is as busy does." Wait. Is that it or is it "Pretty is as pretty does"? That's it, that sounds better.
Seems there have been a lot of parties and a lot of interesting travel opportunities for yours truly over the last several months, It all started with a particularly splendid party held each year in New Orleans attended by only the people that can trace their lineage back to 18th century France and had a relative that perished by the guillotine during "The Rein of Terror".

It's quite charming actually, everyone wears red ribbons tied around their necks and it is held on October 16th, the anniversary of the day the Queen of France Marie Antoinette Josèphe Jeanne de Habsbourg-Lorraine met her fate.

This year it was held in the ballroom in a private house in the French Quarter. The room had been recently restored to it's original Louis-Louis Rococogasm style, you know the look, all 18th century gold mercury guilt and ceilings with painted skies with chubby little cherubs swooping about like pterodactyls that is so popular here.

There was a lovely young Franco-Japanese man at the party by the name of Kyou, (I think it's a Japanese unisex name meaning "apricot,") who was interviewing a few of us for a magazine, the name of which escapes me at the moment, (it's something like "Vellum" or "Papyrus") but here is a little taste of the interview... gagging is encouraged.

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Kyou: "So 'le C', what’s your drink of choice?
Me: "Hmm. Well, besides the blood of robust virile men, which is more of a medicinal thing anyway, I suppose if I had my druthers, I would only drink Framboise Lambic, which is a raspberry-flavored, frothy, garnet Belgian ale that tastes like unicorn tears."
Kyou: "Do you collect anything?"
Me: "Collect? Let's see... maybe a few odds and ends... There's the Medieval embroidery, 'gently used' murder weapons- knives are most desirable, human bones- skulls with a nicely symetrical pterygoid process are a favourite, all things Hello Kitty, the milk teeth of particularly beautiful children, vintage couture, overly dramatic religiosa- you know like divinely gruesome Spanish 18th century crucifixes, depictions of the Anima Sola or Saints that were martyred in an interesting fashion, unredeemed gift certificates, vanitas paintings, jewels with curses, other peoples husbands... just teasing, I was just checking if you were listening."

Kyou: "Hanging on every word."

Me: "Oh goody."

Kyou: "I was invited here tonight thinking that it was a birthday party. Will anyone here actually be guillotined tonight?"

Me: "Sadly no, but a lot of these people will wake up tomorrow wishing that they had lost their heads. Have you tried the punch?"

Kyou: "I have. Wow."

Me: "That's why they call it punch."

Kyou: "Truly. And what are some of your most memorable birthdays?"

Me: "Well now, I missed my birthday when I was five- I was in a coma because I had been struck by lightning a few months earlier, after that missed birthday my parents gave me an 'Un-birthday' party every month, except for the month of my real birthday of course..."

Kyou: "Oh my thats's terrible, but it sounds like a lot of 'Un-birthdays' over the years... any other memorable years?"
Me: "Oh sure! Let's see, on my 10th birthday I met my first boyfriend, when I was 15 I received a full scholarship to NYC Ballet, on my 20th birthday I was homeless yet had a net worth of three million dollars, On my 25th birthday I spent the evening stuck in a limousine -that broke down in the freezing weather- with Joan Rivers of all people, On my 30th birthday I asked for a Mercury Cougar, -I was enthralled with the new trapezoidal waterfall grille and "cat's-eye" headlamps- but instead my mom presented me with a cougar cub, -I named him Murphy- I have his photo here in a locket, Adorable huh? He was rescued after some hunters killed his mother, I thought about calling him Bambi... Anyway, when my Grandmother finally lost her mind she would strip down to her scanties and wrestle with Murphy out in the formal gardens, Oh the times they had, I can still see them romping through the bougainvillea..."

Kyou: "Indeed?"

Me: "Hmm. On my 35th birthday, I was supposed to assasinate Count Whatshisname.... oh, blah blah blah. Now I'm bored with birthdays, shall we change the subject?"
Kyou: "Absolutely. Others here have told me about your delightful sense of style and your devotion to beauty as well as something you call 'radiant decay' can you tell me what that is?"

Me: "I think the concept of what is beautiful is being forced upon us. I believe what is considered beautiful is usually decided equally by the times we live in as well as the products their makers want to sell us. I believe that most of the consuming population believes beauty can't exist without it's opposite- like good cannot exist without evil. I believe decay is beautiful. as winter is as beautiful as spring. I believe the children are our future. No, not really.

When I see some thing or some beautiful person, I have an automatic response in which I see its/their entire lifespan, from inception to disintegration- If it is a beautiful sculpture, painting, or piece of furniture for that matter, I see in my mind its creation from raw materials all the way through its descent into dust-It's the same with people. I will meet or observe some one and immediately and simultaneously see their progression through life- as a child, in their prime and as a dessicated corpse. It's quite unnerving actually- But this also makes my perception of what is 'beautiful' somewhat askew, as I see breath-taking beauty in imperfection. When I meet a true beauty for the first time I will be both fascinated and frustrated with them until I find a flaw of some sort- the bigger the better- it's only then that I can truly accept them and relate to them- it sounds awful I'm sure, but honestly, who really wants 'true perfection' in a friend or loved one? the same goes for things. I totally understand the concept behind the artisan incorporating a flaw in an Amish quilt, but I suppose that is another story all together- and 'Radiant Decay'? It is the state in which you see the real beauty of things- the rose that is just past full bloom, the man that is just at his prime, oozing sensuality, architecture that has been weathered by the ages- patina! Viva Patina! That's what I say..."
Kyou: "So you don't believe in plastic surgery?"

Me: "Oh no.. I mean yes! If someone wants that it's up to the isn't it? It is their body after all. Until they are dead that is, then they become something like public domain. And besides that, face-lifts, botox and that sort of thing are about artifice isn't it? And I am all for that.

Kyou: "And for you?"

Me: "And for me what?"

Kyou: "Plastic surgery?"

Me: "No, I quite like watching time slowly having its way with my face. But it's fashionable to complain about ones looks though isn't it?"

Kyou: "It is. Is your 'look' something that you have created over time?"
Me: "I suppose so. I think all of us create ourselves over a period of years or even every morning for that matter. It is natural to want to emulate what we find attractive in others. Strength, fragility, its all up to the individual."

Kyou: "Do you think beautiful people have the advantage in the world?"

Me: "Naturally. Beauty is the great emancipator. We put way too much faith into it. Anything we think of as beautiful is automatically thought to be 'good'. We expect beautiful people to have grace and dignity. We expect babies and puppies to smell good -always. We expect that beautiful things have been made by people who, if not beautiful physically, to have beautiful souls. We expect beautiful acts of generosity to have no under-layer of self-interest. Because these expectations are unshakable, they might be called convictions. It may be confusing when expectations go unmet, but it is disturbing when convictions are shown to be mistaken.
Here's an example. I received a huge bouquet of out of season flowers that sat on the table for several weeks. The entire life cycle of a flowers seems - to me anyway, so poetic, it pleased me to no end every time I looked at them, because even their decay seemed glamorous. The enjoyment ended when I went, last week, to refill the crystal vase in which the flowers stood I found gooey black mold at the tips of the branches and a smell of confined, humid life. It smelled like the combined smells of a dumpster behind a Chinese fast food restaurant, the underside of a bathmat and a week long unwashed uncut penis. Begrudgingly the flowers soon went into the trash and the trash went out to the curb. So you see, although I enjoyed the beauty of the flowers entire life cycle visually, the stench of decay was off-putting -even to me. And I wasn't about to have 'dead flower stink' ruin my day or my memory of the flowers. Are you with me so far?"

Kyou: "I am struggling, but yes. You seem to have strong convictions."

Me: "As a human, I like convictions reinforced as often as possible, even if that means editing my way through life. Edit, edit edit."

Kyou: "Are you saying you want to see this interview before it goes to print?"

Me: "Exactly."

Cheers.

A Curious Feeling

2 oz gin

1 oz Angostura® bitters

2 oz orange juice

1 oz Kahlua® coffee liqueur

1 oz Mott's® clamato juice

1 tsp brown sugar
Combine dry gin, bitters, coffee liqueur, and orange juice in a mixing glass and stir. Decant contents into a microwave-safe container and microwave for 30 seconds. Add ice to a blender and pour contents of container into it. Add clamato juice and brown sugar, cap container, and turn blender on. When mixture has the consistency of a frozen drink, pour into highball glass. Garnish with straw, a dash of kosher salt, and peppermint leaves.

say hi to forever

Daul Kim 1989-2009 -suicide
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orange marmalade
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하고픈일도 없는데

nothing i want to do

되고픈것도 없는데

nothing i want to be

모두들 뭔가 말해보라해

everyone tells me to say something

별다른 욕심도없이

without any greed

남다른 포부도없이

without any extraordinary ambition

이대로이면 안되는걸까

can't it be this way

나

am

이상한걸까

i a little strange?

어딘가 조금

somewhere little

삐뚤어져버린

deformed

머리에는

mind

매일매일 다른 생각만 가득히

filled with different thoughts

나

am

괜찮은걸까

i okay

지금 이대로

as of right now

어른이되버린 다음에는

after i become adult

점점 더 사람들과 달라지겠지

more and more i will be different from everyone

모든사람이 나와같다면

if everyone were like me

아무갈등도

no conflict

미움도 없이

without hatred

참좋을텐데

it would be so nice

참좋을텐데i

t would be so nice

나

am

이상한걸까

i a little strange

어딘가조금

somewhere

삐둘어져버린

deformed

머리에는 매일 매일 다른 생각만 가득히

head different thoughts everyday

나

am

괜찮은걸까

i okay

지금이대로

as of right now

어른이 되버린 다음에는

i become adult

아니 난 자라지 않을것만 같아

no i don't think i will grow

(from her blog http://iliketoforkmyself.blogspot.com/)

Of Peonies and Afabit

I know my postings have been quite scarce for a while -mea culpa- and I suppose many of you thought that I have been off on a wild toot in some exotic local and had been kidnapped and held for ransom, eventually seducing my swarthy captors and enticing them to kill each other in fits of jealousy and passion for my sole attention.
Well, yes, all that has happened recently but more importantly, I just had the dining room at Chez Moose painted. (I know, squeals abound)
The color is called “Lady Honoria Dedlock Peony” -it is the same hue of pinky peach as my Grandmother had in hers for years, (She referred to it as Hyacinth pink) it is also a color that I admired on the walls while having a rousing romp in the Gothic revival library with the new head gardener in Arley Hall. (a divine English country house owned by Viscount Ashbrook)
This particular shade is also the exact color of walls in the grottoes of Markus Sittikus von Hohenems summer palace Hellbrunn in Salsburg, the color of a particularly memorable piece of salmon I had at the house of Edward Albee and Jonathan Thomas in Montauk in 1978 when I was seventeen, a dead ringer for the color in the diadem of Empress Theodora in the mosaic on the right apsidal wall in the basilica of San Vitale in Ravenna and the same color as the fancy party dress my childhood friend Afabit wore for a solid 6 years.
Afabit was a little girl from “back of town” who got her moniker from the fact that she was called so many names by so many people, a literal alphabet of nicknames.
Sister Taffy called her "Sunshine", Mrs. Russo called her “Ladybug”, the corner grocer “Cookie” called her “Candy Cane” -because she always would save her pennies to buy as many as she could after Christmas at a deep discount- Mr. Jackson called her “Peaches" and Mrs. Legendre called her "Tee-Lilou"…. the list goes on.
Afabit and I were friends ever since the infamous “My name ain't Cat Food” debacle. She not only was the only one of my friends at the time that indulged my fantasy that I was a deposed Chinese princess, she was also the one that help remove the corn-rows from my hair after I pissed Irene Price off half way through having my hair plaited by inferring that she was full of beans.
Afabit and I would meet at the city park and play on the playground rockers we called “The Duckies”- they were over-sized animals on large springs that were set into the ground, there was a duck, a chicken, a horse, a cow, a sheep and inexplicably yet marvelously thrown into the barnyard theme, a lion. She would take the duck and I would sit on the chicken, talking and wobbling to and fro for hours, telling each other fantastic tales until it started getting late, as we both had to be “On the front steps when the street lights came on."
When we were both about seven, Mrs. Giacomo, a nice lady we knew, lost her daughter in to one of those childhood disease that were spoken of only in hushed tones among the grownups, German measles maybe. In a lovely act of charity she gave Afabit some of her daughters clothes, including a perfect silk taffeta dress with a deep portrait collar that sat slightly off the shoulder with a wide sash. The intense color of the dress more than complimented Afabit’s café au lait skin and when she wore it, which was often, she was the image of perfection.
Afabit used to flounce around in that dress with an air of divinity mingled with a touch of superiority. I loved it because when she wore that dress it would assure that she would invariably sit me down like the student to her teacher and teach me some old sayings that her Grandpa used to tell her, things like , “Without the fur you can't tell the difference between a mink and a coon hide.”, “Don’t be tryin’ to dry today’s cloths with tomorrows sun.” and "If she's High yella, she'll steal yo fella..."- she also taught me old Billie Holiday songs and how to shoot dice, and how to say saucy things in Creole French... -stuff that I still find myself smiling at when I think of them.
That same fancy party dress that hung on her like cheap drapes at seven, became quite scandalous in its fit by age twelve, when Aphabit began blossoming, quite early, into who we all knew would be a stunningly beautiful woman. About that time Afabit up and moved away with her mother, to Mississippi I heard, and I never saw her again.
But the day after I heard she left, I went down to the city park to look for her, on the ducks head was the sash to her fancy party dress, neatly tied in a bow.

Cheers,

The Duckies
1 1/2 oz Myer's® dark rum
1 1/2 oz Malibu® coconut rum
1/4 oz peach schnapps
1/4 oz blackberry schnapps
1/2 oz orange juice
1/2 oz cranberry juice
1/4 oz pineapple juice
Shake well with ice and pour into Hurricane glass. Add a floater of Myer's dark rum for an additional kick.

Dim Sum, You Lose Some

(From a recent automatic writing session during a seance/Dim-sum party to summon Yves Klein -but we got Yves Saint Laurent instead)

Ooooh, mes amis, it’s a little brisk outside!. I could see my breath this morning, if I were still breathing! Un boue de souffle! I should not like to be caught dead in this weather, but ha ha I am however!
Autumn is so pretty! Apples and golden leaves that spiral down into the garden. So peaceful! And another opportunity to be elegant!
Yesterday I spent hours watching a leaf attached to a spider trail, so it remained all afternoon suspended between earth and sky, like myself. Oh, I watched as the maid brought out the chocolatiere set. Mother gave me the chocolatiere, it is made of lovely porcelain and the cups are so small and lovely, as it is a treat, to be sipped. I hope the new owners paid a fortune for it.

A moment so sweet that cocoa has its own serving set, so precious. The falling leaf, the hot chocolate in little cups so fine you can see your fingers if you hold them up to light, oh what a lovely way to spend an afternoon. Did you smell the plums that fell to the ground?
Bone china comes from pieces so delicate you can see through. It is hardly ever made from the dessicated bones of your rivals all ground up. Well, not so much anymore.
Demitasse are the lovely little cups coffee used to be served on, before the whole big gulp drinking coffee. They are right, you are getting fat.
Autumn is a wonderful time to invite friends over for oysters and a nice Riesling. Do you eat oysters off lovely oyster plates so ornate with little wells for lemon and salt?
So, that reminds me of the 1970s, what a lovely time. So creative, before this orgy of consumption. Oh, fashion wasn’t so fast, and littered with day time television people, clutching around their supersized coffees. Ugh, that is right up there with a truffle burger. Truffles, like fine cocoa or coffee, is meant to be savored, and appreciated, not mashed into the burger. Who are these people following off a cliff, like it’s the fall of the Roman Empire?
Do you need a faster computer? A “phone app” to “make it easier to order fast food”? How much easier and faster does fast food need to be? Are you going to stand in front of your microwave screaming Hurry Up? Fried chicken at the Met Ball? It is gluttony.
Slow down and enjoy yourself.
Enjoy the dahlias of this time of year. Some are sunset, dark orange centers with apricot spikes radiating out from the center. Some a royal purple, some a lipstick pink, or vibrant red. Have you seen the French Vogue cover from summer 1983 with Jerry Hall straddling an Air France Jet, wearing only bright red lipstick? It was my lipstick, of course.
Oh, I hope this economy means magazines go back to putting models on the covers.
Oh, this economy isn’t a bad thing, It’s a chance to learn about what counts. If you have a black skirt and sweater, you have what counts. You supply the elegance. Those editors trying to force unwearable clothes on you, ha, budget cuts mean they don’t even have stir sticks for their fake sugar in their coffees.
Oh, I meant for us to chat to day about wonderful plaids and timeless clothes. Oh, plaids. So beautiful for fall. But I am really quite tired. We’ll talk again soon, about plaid. I am dozing off, but my lips smile at a joke of Karl’s. Why do Scotsman wear kilts? Because zippers scare the sheep!

A bientot mes amis! As I am dead, I shall remain bored- Stiff! (ha ha) - Yves

Cheers,

Autumn Moon

1 oz light rum

1/2 oz apricot brandy

1/2 oz Galliano® herbal liqueur

1 tsp lemon juice

2 oz pineapple juice

Shake ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice. Strain into a cocktail glass and garnish with an orange slice.

A little nunsense, now and then,

My, my my. Here we are in the Atlantic Northeast again. I am currently at the cunning cottage in the Summer Colony we call "The Framptons" (because of it's frequent inhabitant, You-know-Who) sitting in the "Robespierre Room" so name for the clever decor, the French furnishings with a portrait above the mantle of the rooms namesake. The most interesting touch are the silver silk draperies with valances shaped like the blades of a guillotine- complete with a blood red border on the edge- smashing idea in my opinion, anyway, I am here to celebrate the birthday of a beloved friend, Rosé who turns eighty this year, though you would never know it the way she carries on.

As I strut and fret about what to wear and if Fidelia can iron french cuffs properly in time, I put a 78 on the gramophone of "Kitten on the keys" and await the arrival of all the handsome men shaped to be easily annoyed in their blazers the blue of a spring midnight and their honey colored and diamante covered wives that will begin in a few hours, and although the season officially ended on Labor day, we all gather around from near and far on this important day to have, as Rosé puts it "One last toot."

I spent the day on a friends boat, the "Sally Forth", with Mr. Moose and an old friend of the family, Sister Taffy, a SSND nun, jaunting down to Fire Island and back, to take in the air and get the rest of the Summer dish I have missed out on. I decided to record the entire conversation in case the champagne and the sea air gave me amnesia later.

Here are a few of the highlights:

"I'm going to go look at the chandelier."
"I didn't give birth to anything. I was under pressure."
"I'm working on my alcoholism. I'll just have a glass"
"Waking up the next morning can make you a coward again."

"How's my hair?"

"Tedious."

"So she says, 'I will use every astrological barb to destroy the 16-year-old übergoth who doesn't think I'm cool."
"They go on Egypt binges."
"I don't want to go home with the hiccups. They're very revealing."
"You don't have to mention that nothing else happened but this."
"I want to buy a mess of pumpkin seeds."

"Having the hiccups is a lot like premature ejaculation. It's not a complete act."

"It's very easy to impress neophytes."
"Tongue in cheek. That's what we like."
"We might as well exploit ourselves over and over again."
"We have inexhaustible material."
"Just remind me a lot."
And then we had a conversation with a well-groomed boy, who wanted Angelina's number, about Giotto and the whole extinction of pandas thing.
"It [my bladder] just has a small capacity."
"This will redeem you. You've had Rick James come onto you. You MUST enrapture Clive Barker."
"We're just wrong."
"Sick and wrong."
"We need awards."
"I thought you said we needed more champagne."

"We don't take ourselves seriously. We deserve everything."
"Yes, there are many different ways to combine words."

"Fallopian Testimonies"
"Follicular Marmalade"

"Everyone flirts with you."

"It's because I don't care,"
"It's because you look good in a bar."

"I used to think you looked like Jesus when your hair was long."

"I wish men could wear wimples."
"He's just a little off. It might be drugs."

"Who? Oh whatshisname, but he looks great."

"What ever happened to wimples?"

"I agree, the portrayals of Jesus during the Renaissance were rather sexy."
"Is that's why nuns used to go into ecstasies at the drop of a hat?"

"Is that a pterodactyl or am I getting hammered?"

"Did I used to look like sexy Jesus?"

"Why do they call it Fire Island again?"

"I am craving PEZ."

"That sounds hormonal."

"I saw Kitty looking at real estate in Bridgehampton last week."

"Oh dear, are we out of Champagne?"

"Lets go to Uruguay!"

"I still have the hiccups"

"Try sugar on your tongue"

"There's only Splenda."

Cheers.

Champagne ala Sally Forth

1 1/2 oz passion-fruit puree

simple syrup

Champagne

1/2 oz Alize® liqueur
Pour passion fruit puree into a champagne saucer and stir in the simple syrup (to taste). Slowly add the champagne whilst stirring gently. Float the alize on top, and serve.

My Cherry Armoire and other Beloved Furniture

How time flies when you are having fun. During the recent Labor Day holiday celebrations I spent time in my beloved New Orleans around friends and loved ones as well as the throngs of male crudité that invade our little hamlet during the yearly festival know as Southern Decadence. As the scores of unwashed masses usually do not provide even an ounce of mental stimulation, relying on visual and tactile stimuli instead- like so much decorative furniture- I was more than pleased-as-rum-punch when during one of many parties (hmmmf) I had a most pleasurable conversation with a rather handsome man about, of all things, the return of astrology as a reliable source of matchmaking, you know, by figuring out someones personality- without all that time spent chatting away mano a mano over countless bottles of (shudder) inexpensive wine. Boxed even.

Choosing a rather perilously low divan - because as you know I have the kind of figure that is well suited for reclining among cushions- I chatted away with the aforementioned gentleman, a certain French celebrity of sorts, almost half my age yet well beyond the age of reason with dancing golden brown eyes and muscular pecs to match and hair the color of neglected brass, you know who I mean, don't be coy.

A one point in our conversation about astrology, he lifted the glass filled with amber liquid, holding it, regarding it as though looking at me through a lorgnon, and said in a throaty accent: "You know cherie, you could have saved many a Grand Duke or Saudi Prince from finding himself in the fearful midnight hour, pouring his heart out in a letter filled with his unrequited passion before then turning to the service revolver lying on the table simply by comparing your astrological signs first..." I realized how right he was - beautiful people so often are- So here is a bit of a run down of signs and their somewhat cliche personality traits for your carful study; mix and match like IHOP syrups to find your own cherie amour.

Capricorn December 22 -January 19

Tends to be very private and as a result learns little about real life. Tends to be passive aggressive. Tendency for show-boating, especially in their careers. Best as child. Famous Capricorns: Jesus, Marilyn Manson, Susan Lucci.

Aquarius January 20 -February 18

Creative and modern thinking. Often mistaken for not-to-bright. Does not learn from experience. Likes shiny objects and/or other peoples husbands/wives. Famous Aquarians: Zsa Zsa Gabor, Dan Quale, Sharon Tate.

Pisces February 19 -March 20

Emotionally powerful if a bit paranoid Makes up by being a bully for what lacks in real bravery. Has no pets but complex imaginary friends instead. Famous Pisceans: Jack Kerouac, Patty Hearst, Madame Chiang Kai-shek.

Aries March 21 -April 19

Tendency toward being outdoorsy and independent, or at least dresses the part. Walks away rather than have a decent discussion. Better without progeny. Makes excellent Sherpa. Famous Arians: Joan Crawford, William Shatner, Debbie Reynolds.

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Taurus April 20 -May 20

Great stick-with-it-ness. Often quite successful later in life- usually by crooked means. Famous Taurians: Prescott Bush, Adolf Hitler, Jim Jones.

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Gemini May 21 -June 20

Dual natured. Intelligent if schizophrenic. Neither aspect of personality admirable. Fast at making deals, Fast at loosing friends/shirt. Famous Geminis: Jeffery Dahmer, King George III, Paula Abdul.

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Cancer June 21 -July 22

A good listener and quite easy to take advantage of. Wildly emotional, barely able to function in an adult environment. Tendency toward deep seated sexual infantilism. Famous Cancerians: Lizzie Bordon, P.T. Barnum, George W. Bush.

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Leo July 23 -August 22

Clever. Stubborn and forceful. Pulls wool over others eyes as a hobby. Seems to listen but doesn't really care. Makes good cop. Famous Leos: Miss Cleo, Aldous Huxley, Madonna.

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Virgo August 23 -September 22

Weighs facts carefully often resulting in complete inaction. Obsessively clean and therefore hard to be with because of it. Whines a lot. Famous Virgos: Queen Elizabeth I, Upton Sinclair, Josie and The Pussycats.

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Libra September 23 -October 22

Sensitive to music, art and literature. Happy completely alone much to the delight of everyone. Famous Libras: Truman Capote, Mark Rothko, Al Sharpton.

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Scorpio October 23 -November 21

Sneaky. One way sensitivity. Easily hurt, but unconscious of other peoples feelings. Makes excellent file clerk or facist rebel. Famous Scorpios: Fedor Dostoevsky, Tonya Harding, Charles Manson.

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Sagittarius November 22 -December 21

Wide open. Gives too much information on personal matters but also otherwise known to take creative liberties with The Truth. Sees the bright side of everything however senseless. Known to follow lemmings. Famous Sagittarius's: Nostradamus, Catherine of Aragon, Jay Bakker.

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There now... all better? Hmmm, you're welcome, all for science...

Cheers.

cherie amour

3 oz vodka

4 oz coconut rum

4 sliced bananas

1 pint strawberries

Combine all ingredients in a blender with enough ice to achieve a smooth consistancy. Serve in coupe glass.

unrelated mental sinuosities

Exclaiming "Mein schatz!" after tasting Halen Mon Taha's Vanilla sea salt for the first time, I was convinced the perfect girl for me was Irona, Richie Rich's robot maid.

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Using hubris sparingly while turning the soil in my flower garden of love

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After a long evening spent watching "Gossip Girl" and drinking girly drinks with his gays, my friend Jason Hiqury was a little embarrassed at his alcohol fueled erectile dysfunction. He had a good laugh however as "Hiqury Daiquiri Dick" seemed like a great - If some what dyslexic- name for a nursery rhyme.

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This afternoon, as I tried to fend off the crazed feral cat that had attacked me in the alley, I heard the neighborhood ice cream truck making its rounds. As I feverishly beat the cat with a stick to remove it and it's fangs from my calf, I noticed the truck, that usually plays "Camp-town Races", now plays the theme from "Love Story".... In a bitterly ironic twist, the doctor only had Hello Kitty Band-aids.

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Overheard during a Titanium lift facial at the Chantecaille Energy Spa at Barneys New York: "I'm sooo worried about Yasmin Khan, her uterus is leaking." One can only hope Yasmin Khan is a poodle.

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Trying to define yourself is like trying to bite your own teeth.

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While walking through a cemetery today, I spied what appeared to be a note on top of the tombstone of someone recently interred, with a small stone to secure it from being blown away. Being naturally curious, I looked at the note- It was a recent parking ticket belonging to the deceased.

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A bird in the hand is just a nice way of saying someone is flipping you off.

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Today I sent myself a letter. Not really a letter, more of a contingency plan of what to do in the event of waking up one morning a member of the aristocracy. Well it's not really a contingency plan, it's more or less a list of the required jewelry.
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"Delicate bodies that decay beneath their clothing play cards in an empty house in Paris as the wreckage of our hero lies broken in the corner but everyone pretends he likes to live that way." -Best lyrics ever?
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I think they're sisters. It's like Little Women with chunky knits and styrofoam coffee cups. The one with the lazy eye is totally Jo. And "Laurie" Laurence, the charming, playful, and rich young teenager next door neighbor is one of her students - who in reality is an Emo with a thing for Milf's.
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Never combine spiced rum and white chocolate, they are enemies, and it's really gay. Like Disney's Fantasia (The Pastoral Symphony part with cupid showing the pegasi it's butt) gay.
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Some days are like being in a bubble bath full of glow in the dark rubber duckies with all the lights off- mildly amusing, better after a few drinks and always sound a little disturbing when described to your friends.
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Overheard in line at Target....
Girl #1: "Well my boyfriend criteria is this, Smart, Cute, Funny, will watch scary movies with me and did not pick Charmander as first Pokemon..."
Girl #2. "Entia non multiplicanda praeter necessitatem."
Girl #1. "Yeah, totally...."
Girl #2. " You want Przewalski's horse while you are at it?"
Girl #1 "No but I do want a Reecy PBC."
Girl #2. "Reecy PBC?"
Girl #1. "Reece's Peanut Butter Cup"
Girl #2. "Oh... that's a pretty vague reference Amber..."
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Note found written in crayon: Dear Summer-time, I want you to be my white slave zombie. The last thing you will eat is a stinkin' cupcake made with poison ivy. Every time you are a horse I am a lion. Grr.. Bye. Kill you later. Your enemy, Winter-time
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I live in constant fear of falling asleep in front of the Television only to wake up to The Bernie Mac Show.
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Postsynaptic potential? Yup I'm for it.
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In the middle of the fifth playing of "Limbo Rock" I had the personal epiphany that although all the limbo boys and girls all around the limbo world are not entitled to government provided heath care, it would certainly be a nice gesture on the governments part.
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Costume idea: Dress as a giant lab rat with a cardboard sign that says "Will press lever for food"
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Best accidental display ever: A clearly marked cardboard kiosk formally used for display of "There will be Blood" DVDs with copies of "Bambi II" in it instead.
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Cheers.

Fantasia
2 oz Grey Goose® L'Orange vodka
2 oz Barenjager® honey liqueur
thinly sliced orange
Pour both ingredients into a shaker. Strain and pour into a highball glass and garnish with an orange slice.

ce n'est pas un poteau de blog

paryushan

Today starts the Jain "Festival of Uplifting the Self by the Holy Observation of Ten Universal Virtues" So put down the french fries...
The Jain community like other communities throughout the world celebrates many social and religious functions annually. The superb Jain festival popularly known as ‘Paryushan Parva’ organized every year in the auspicious month ‘Bhadrapad’ of the Hindu calendar extends from the fifth day to fourteenth day of the bright fortnight. The festival ordains the Jains to observe the ten universal supreme virtues in daily practical life. Besides assuring a blissful existence in this world and the other world for every living being, it aims at the attainment of salvation - the supreme ideal for mundane soul. The non-Jains also express high reverence for this Jain festival. All members of Jain community- high and low, young and old, and males and females, participate with full vigor and zeal in the various religious rituals and cultural programs. They listen with rapt attention to the holy sermons of the saints and learned Jain scholars arranged during the ten-day festival. In these celebrations lie dormant the seeds of the well being, peace and happiness of the common man. On the eve of this festival all activities, which add to social discord or bitterness are declared taboo from the temple pulpits. These celebrations harbinger social harmony and amity and preach the lofty Jain motto ‘Live and Let live’.

The ‘Paryushan Parva’ celebrated annually for self-purification and uplift is meant to adhere to the ten universal virtues in practical life; and leads us on the right path, far from the mad strife for material prosperity, which ultimately leads us to our true destination i.e., salvation. Two popular titles of this festival, viz. (i) Paryushan Parva and (ii) Dash Lakshan Parva are in vogue; but the mode of performance and aim of the festival is same. According to Sanskrit grammar the underlying idea of the festival and its interpretation is given below:
“Parismantadushayante dhante karmani yasimannasau paryushnm”
I.e., The celebration through which the karmic matter attached to the soul is totally burnt or

vanquished (both internally and externally) is known Paryushan i.e., self-purification.

Various meaningful and sublime titles have been assigned to this festival in different Jain scripture; e.g.,
Parva Raj - The festival which carries a special and greater significance; its celebrations spread over a longer duration and it is more soul-stirring than any other Jain festival.
Maha Parva - It is an ancient and chief of all Jain festival.
Dash Lakshan Parva - The festival for the observance of ten universal virtues; viz., forgiveness, contentment, and celibacy, which aim at the uplift of the soul and are vividly preached and practiced during the festival.
Paryushan Parva - The festival through which an attempt is made to put an end to all vices, passions and lustful desires in thought, speech and deeds.
Paryu-Prasa - The festival in which one meditates upon the inherent virtues of the soul in thought, speech and action; or one attains peace of soul i.e., celestial peace.
Paryupshamn or Pajjusvana - The festival in which an attempt is made to obtain peace discarding all passions and lustful desires through various means; and observe harmony in the soul through the study of scriptures.
Pajjushana - This word of Prakrit language carries the same meaning as explained in Paryushan Parva.
Samvatsari Parva - The festival which is celebrated annually to subdue all passions and lustful desires. This title is popular to the Swaitamber sect of Jainism.

Paryushan Parva gives expression to the perfectly purified trait of the soul, through which one gets rid of worldly discords and allurements and one gets fully absorbed in the eternal truth on experiencing and realizing the true nature of soul. In other words we can say that the natural realization of the trio ‘the True, the Good and the Beautiful’ is fully possible only through Paryushan. In fact the other name of the Jainism, which is universal religion, is Paryushan. This festival puts an end to all evils in man; gives him realization of the eternal bliss, and spiritualism becomes alive by the celebration of this festival.

Since times immemorial the living beings have fallen prey to the bewitching worldly allurements. They are involved day and night in such a poisonous environment of lustful desires and sensuous pleasures that despite being cautioned time and again, they fail to rid themselves from the bondage of the net work of worldly illusions. Jain Acaryas have, through their sermons and ideal moral code of conduct, inspired the mundane souls to keep aloof from the blemishes of the world, which breed nothing but sorrow and misery for the mankind. But the insatiable ambition of man for sensuous pleasures, material comforts and luxurious life has always allured him since antiquity. Consequently man has bitterly failed to make distinction between self and non-self, and to understand the real nature of soul.
During the eight-day Paryushan festival, many fast and perform pratikaraman, meaning 'turning back'. It is a form of meditation where one reflects on his spiritual journey and renews his faith. During this time, many drink boiled water and eat before sunset. Many abstain from onions/garlic/potatoes (root vegetables), fermented food, and even green vegetables. Penance and fasting are the key words in these days. The reason for such restriction is to hurt as less living beings as possible. Items previously mentioned have far greater number of lives (atmas) than simple grains. For example, when you take any piece of potato and put it in water, it will grow. but the same is not true for rice grain. By doing this, we commit less sin and bind with fewer bad karmas. this will later help us on our jouney to moksha.
This festival has its own age-old history, but nothing definite can be said about its origin and since when it is being celebrated. In fact, the celebration of this festival is beyond the scope of known history. The truth is that spiritual matters like self-purification and renunciation cannot be measured by Time scale. When the auspicious month of Bhadrapad comes every year, the whole Jain community celebrates this festival unitedly without any difference of high and low, rich and poor. The Digambaras and the Swaitamberas, both sects of Jain community celebrate the self-uplifting festival with great enthusiasm. The fifth day of the bright fortnight of the holy month of ‘Bhadrapad’ is auspicious for both. The Digambaras celebrate this festival annually for ten days, from the fifth day to the fourteenth day of the bright half of the month. Whereas the Swaitamberas celebrate it only for eight days, and the fifth day is the main day of their celebrations held under the title ‘Samvatsari Parva’.
Now, with a little Wiki help...
Pratikramana (Samayika): Renewal meditation:
Pratikramana means turning back. It is a form of meditation, called Samayika where one reflects on his spiritual journey and renews his faith. For both Swetambaras and Digambaras, it takes the form of periodic meditation. The period can be twice daily (morning and evening), once every lunar phase, every four months, or every year. The annual Pratikramana in some form is the minimum for a Sravaka.
The annual Pratikramana is Samvatsari Pratikramana, in short Samvatsari. Since it coincides with Paryushana, the terms "Samvatsari" and "Paryushana" are sometimes used interchangeably.
Pratikramana includes:
samayika: to stay in equanimity by withdrawing to the self.
Prayers to the Five Supremes, 24 Jinas and the 4 mangalas, including the Dharma as presented by the ancient Masters.
Prayer to the Master(Guru) or the Deity.
Reflections on vratas and past transgressions.
Kayotsarga: detachment from the body by controlling it.
Pratyakhyan: making resolutions for the next period (next year for Samvatsari Pratikramana).
The detailed recommended procedure can be found in the handbooks. Detailed Pratikramana takes about 3 hours, however all essentials can be done in a much shorter time if needed.
Pratikramana is also sometimes termed Samayika in the Digambara tradition.
By tradition certain postures are recommended for Pratikramana.

Dasha-Lakshana Vrata:
This is a vrata that celebrates 10 components of the dharma: Noble kshama (forbearance), mardava (gentleness), arjava (uprightness), shaucha (purity), satya (truth), sanyam (restraint), tapa (austerity), tyaga (renunciation), akinchanya (lack of possession) and brahmcharya (chastity), as described by Umaswati.
In the full form, it is a 10 day vrata that spans 10 years. It may be undertaken during Shukla Panchami to Chaturdashi of Bhadrapada, Magh or Chaitra. However it is common to do it during Bhadrapada, in which case it starts with Paryushana.

Requesting Forgiveness
At the conclusion of the festival, the Sravakas request each other for forgiveness for all offenses committed during the last year. This occurs on the Paryusha day for the Swetambara and on Pratipada (first) of Ashwin Krashna for the Digambara. Forgiveness is asked by telling "Micchami Dukkadam" to each other. It means "If I have caused you offence in any way, knowingly or unknowingly, in thought word or deed, then I seek your forgiveness".

To sum up, Paryushan Parva is a grand Jain festival of self-introspection, self-enlightenment and self-achievement, which ultimately leads to the one and only one final goal, i.e., liberation or salvation.

carnal symmetry in 25 yards of peau de soie

Remembering Charles James. (1906-1978) A somewhat forgotten superstar of fashion.

Here are a few numbers:
200 - number of dresses Charles James designed in his life.
1 - time he got drunk with his pal Halston and threw a plate at policeman.
Several - times he delivered late gowns.
Several - times he delivered his creations after dancing in it all night.
3 - Prizes won . One refused because the fashion system was not equal/moral.
1 - Declaration by Balenciaga. "He's the best couturier in the world".

Charles James was born in London. His father was an English military officer, while his mother came from a socially prominent Chicago family. After he was expelled from Harrow as the result of a sexual escapade, his family packed him off to Chicago to work. Not long after, he began his career as milliner. His shop at 1209 North State Street was called Charles Boucheron, the surname borrowed from a school friend. Two years later he moved to New York City and began designing dresses with the same sculptural sense that characterized his millinery. “Charles James is not only the greatest American couturier, but the world’s best and only dressmaker who has raised it from an applied art form to a pure art form,” declared the great Spanish couturier, Cristóbal Balenciaga. (and you know how we love him)

His famous “butterfly Dress,” www.flickr.com/photos/chicagohistory/2967815278/ originally created for Mrs. William Randolph Hearst Jr. in 1954, is made of 25 yards of peau de soie and nylon net, the dress weighs 18 pounds. Its most notable features are structured side wings and a back bustle skirt. The Chicago History Museum has more than a dozen dresses by Charles James, many of which were donated only a few years after they were first worn, possibly because they were so difficult to store.

Cheers.

Galliano Daiquiri
1 oz gold rum

3/4 oz Galliano® herbal liqueur

juice of 1/2 limes

1/2 oz sugar syrup
Shake briefly with a glassful of crushed ice, and pour into a frosted cocktail glass. Garnish with a slice of lime, and serve.

of poisoned apples and eydie gormé

So.
I had just gotten off the line with B. discussing his kitchen renovation- (counter tops to be exact- he was deciding between granite and what he called "Coriander") when, in the middle of cleaning my Hello Kitty AK47 while listening to the 1961 recording of "I Feel so Spanish" by Eydie Gormé, (if you remember, her version of Soundgarden's "Black Hole Sun" with Steve Lawrence was the song I used during the processional at my last wedding) my princess telephone in the boudoir rang again.....
It was Mazeppa. Frantic. Seems that her mothers personal maid Chutiyah had locked herself in the slate lined guest bathroom shower, doused herself with gasoline and lit a match. The poor dear had recently lost her husband, and in the spirit of being old school, she naturally decided it would be perfectly proper to commit what until the last century was a common practice known as suttee. (albeit her husband was on the other side of the planet, I guess its the thought that counts) I found out later in the conversation that the main cause of Mazeppas freak fest was the minor detail that she had an important dinner party that evening where Itzhak Perlman was the guest of honor. Pretending not to hear her when she asked where I bought my potpourri and if they sold it in bulk, I suggested moving the party part and parcel to a nice restaurant, but she decided to make a few phone calls and change the menu to barbecue and the venue out of doors. She also had the where with all to find and serve Nestle Itzakadoozie ice pops in his honor. Always on her toes that one.
The Grim Reaper must get less commission on those people that choose to end their own lives, don't you think?
I am certain that he has had quite a summer so far, what with all the suicidal hi-jinks going on around the globe and in our own back yards. Like the idiot that went into that aerobics class and killed those poor women, and like Warren. Dear, dear Warren.
My old pal Warren Pease was a man as thick and wordy and full of conflict as the novel that shares his name. We went to the same school when we were children and sat next to each other in Sister Oubliette's Math class, always chose each other when we were choosing people for our side in Sister Mary Truncheon's Phys Ed class and were often seen sitting together waiting for our turn outside the Mother Superior's office for some slight infraction. Like the time we tried to exorcise Mary Anne Montenegro's “Mrs. Beasley” doll with a railroad spike, it's a long story.
Admittedly, it was a bit of a shock when I heard not only that Warren had taken his own life, but also the way he chose to do it. It seems after he failed to come home one evening, he was found the next morning in his office dressed up like Snow White with the remainder of a poisoned apple in his hand. Of course the police questioned everyone that worked with him, including seven coworkers that just happen to be "little people"- you could say that at least one of the gentlemen questioned were not amused at the inquiry, grumpy even.
Though surprising, Warren and I had always joked around about having the final word when it came to our own mortality. I always thought he would end it all with a measured amount of flair and panache, and after that certain summer at camp, I was almost certain he would very likely choke himself to death during auto-fellatio, or perish during one of our infamous and rousing games of Strip Russian Roulette.
Suicide is an awful thing to do, dying for that matter is considered outre these days, yet many people I come into contact with every day do so passively by over eating, drinking, taking drugs, getting diseases and generally acting a fool until they die. I think the act itself is terribly selfish, you should consider the feelings of others before you commit such an act, especially if you are what they refer to as an adult.
A clearly willful act of suicide in early youth is not only preferable and more interesting to the public, it also is the only time in ones life that you can get by with the general "I am ending it all because no one understands me" sort of explanation without coming off as being overly dramatic. If you are young and priggishly determined to get back at all of those people that question your beliefs by ending it all, try and include as many of them as you wish by leaving a number of well composed suicide notes to each of your tormentors, explaining in detail how they were the principal cause of your despair. The psychiatric community will thank you for this. Also, young people should never commit suicide over college grades until their final exam scores have lowered the class curve. Your peers will thank you for that. Do not kill yourself to get back at your parents, if they actually do detest you, you'll just be playing into their hands.

As for the rest of us far beyond the Age of Reason, If you absolutely, positively must end it all, please do so as you would perform any other gesture as personal as this, neatly or in an interesting manner and always in good taste. Murder-suicide is considered the lowest form of bad taste so it should absolutely never even be considered. -Even if you are used to having an entourage wherever you go.- (this includes being a suicide bomber. The idea of ending it all for a cause seems calculating at best and tends to give others impolite thoughts about how empty your life must be otherwise... tre declasse)
My suggestion? Try and be creative with your method of self destruction, travel to San Juan Capistrano and handcuff yourself to something in the bell tower around the time the swallows return -being fluttered to death even sounds like fun- or work at an abortion clinic for ten years, go to a Catholic country and turn yourself in for mass murder. Or, go with a surprise ending. It's always fashionable to try to be beaten to death by a bunch of teenagers in the restroom of a public park that's known as a hangout for gays or by going to the red light district and slapping the first pimp you find. This will give people lots to say, especially your wife and children.

The value of planning cannot be over estimated. If you are going to really make headlines, you should start laying the groundwork early in life by being a nice quiet straight A student and a dutiful child to your parents. It gives no end of pleasure to everyone when a person like that throws themselves on fire into the Senate from the visitor's gallery or commits Seppuku with a string fed lawn trimmer. Some people try to add extra shock value by committing the deed in the all-together, i.e. nude. Just a grace note here, try and be honest about how you look in the buff will you? Remember, there is always the chance that you might not be found for a while and, like television, death, initially adds at least ten pounds- what with the bloating and all. It is much safer to wear something simple in white, to contrast with the blood, or a smart ensemble that will show your superior breeding, even if its only to the crime lab. And be sure to empty your bladder and bowels beforehand, gore from a bullet wound might be dramatic but there's always an element of low comedy to excrement. You're welcome.

If you are a traditionalist, among the classics are climbing out of a window onto a ledge so that crowds can gather and urge you to jump, but be sure to let at least one policeman climb out to reason with you before you jump, as this is how they get get medals and promotions. Guns are also a classic- if a bit expected- and razors lead to all kinds of messes as one forgets if it is better to go "across the street" or "down the road". Using natural gas, though it seems to be the most green of means, comes across as being wasteful of our natural resources and drugs are too chancy as you might miscalculate the dosage and just have a really good time -or you might wind up in the hospital as a human vegetable. In which case you'll spend the rest of your life being pestered to become the head of a "Grassroots" Republican group.

There are times and places that it would be very bad manners to commit suicide. Never do it at someone else's funeral, it is stealing the show and much too pushy. (This is how the British improved manners on the Indian subcontinent when they put a stop to suttee, more or less) Try and not kill yourself in a way that will result in your becoming a martyr. The world does not need more hideous portraits painted on black velvet of the type seen depicting MLK, JFK, Jesus or Elvis, on T shirts with Tupac, Biggie or Kurt Cobain or the horror of Franklin Mint plates with images of Princess Diana, or Michael Jackson.

As a final thought, a classic from an expert on the subject, Dotty Parker.

Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live.

Now, how about a drink, something light. Cheers,

Hari Kari

1 oz brandy

1 oz Cointreau® orange liqueur

2oz orange juice
Pour all ingredients into a cocktail shaker half-filled with ice cubes. Shake well, strain into a cocktail glass, and serve.

notes from the cerebral museum - night shift

* when I write "bff" I secretly mean bunny foo foo

* the wagging tail drops like a stone to the floor when he sees the suitcases

* me in one of those ill fitting gowns bring subtle nudges and widened eyes from hit men and hypocrites
* you're not really the lord of darkness, so try not to drown
* your windsong stays on my mind, that, and the time you pooped in the bed

* sorry I didn't tell you about trotsky, little dead shrew or the sleep-talking baby foxes and the marmoset, I didn't think it was important
* the queen of france's earrings and lots of blood on the snow
* love love love plus one? yes, I question everything
* inept blood bringer father figure smug in a lab coat
* notes on a sandal, lasts seasons jimmy choos

* just half a cup please
* demure mystery roses and confessional sweet nothings to an ape in tigger socks, kiss me on the mouth please
* thieving knave nicks kiss, leaves feeling illuminated
* the strange fortunes of fond creatures

* i'm an animal trapped in your hot car, let's make out
* meaningless notes on fridges, this dilemma requires a soundtrack
* mid discussion about when dargelos died and cocteau ran away to marseilles to live among sailors and prostitutes, I swallowed my fortune and had to purge, I didn't know it was a holy water font
* easter salt in valentine wounds circa 1939 leads to bouncing dishes on a regency sofa
* tomorrow's graveyard forage: look for the father of the man that dreamed of wires
* fully expecting speculaas before december 5th, and full guest compliance
* layeth me down in green pastures or I'm going to a robot-making party

* the people that live in the boats in my hair dream of black pony kisses and my yellow mane
* it was becoming golden, dressing a shadow and combing it's hair, for whom do you model? the boston strangler?

* she was just a ghost until she met him, now they're both just demons
* one can't be weeping over schubert all of the time, anton reicha is another story, if only for the irregular time signatures
* watching a colossal youth sleeping outside the chatty cathy caravan with scooby douche
* when we were pretty and took turns with crimpers I burned you hair on purpose because you ruined my barbie makeup head with a marksalot

* we don't have to take our clothes off to have a good time, but the tivo is broken
* medicine administered by a cute doctor is the best medicine, a close second is going to bed in little brown socks with garlic cloves in them
* watching the turkish karaoke talking about how now and again he puts me on parole
* she's half german, half french, has "follow me home hair" and looks exactly like bambi - not surprisingly, looks great in the woods

* leonor fini still gives surreal enfant terrible value
* my hopes of being head gardener at the palace of versailles have been dashed, as I realise I am horribly put off by rose bush scratches. and dirt

* if you hadn't died, you'd be recovering from a black eye, I hope you are at the cosmos cotillion with serena and uncle arthur

* the aging chanteuse droned on, making sounds like a hammer horror cellar door, with only the scent of violette in the air making it bearable

* a heart shaped post-it saying 'no switchy offy' in an apartment in hells kitchenette

* when life gives you lululemons, make lululemonaide- in the downward dog position

Cheers.

Raspberry Long Island Slurpee

1 oz vodka

1 oz rum

1 oz 1800® Tequila

1 oz gin

1 oz triple sec

1 1/2 oz sweet and sour mix

1 oz Chambord® raspberry liqueur

Put all ingredients in blender with ice cubes, blend and serve with a crazy straw.

wurzeltod

From the archives:

We listen to them don't we?

You will be like us, think like us, worship like us, laugh like us, live like us.

You will know this to be wrong, but you will notice that the days are waning when support exists for the individual and for deviation. That was a luxury of richer times, and it is none too surprising that in the days when such support existed, deviation was the norm, and all other thought was suspect. So much for tolerance.

And SURPRISE, some people prefer to be sheep. Some people prefer to be led. And that is why we're back. Because you're tired. Because you're weary. Because you stopped wearing those paisley bell-bottoms you bought in the thrift shop for $1.99 because they were so retro-60s, and although you were born in the 60s, you are too young to remember it but wanted to believe it was a time of respect for deviance and the individual.

And, anyway, whoever led you to believe that paisley was so altogether all-fired deviant and individualistic? Hell, that particular pattern on your pants came from a tapestry made for an ancient Persian despot who had his subjects beheaded regularly for forgetting which way to face. Think about that while you watch "The View" and spoon that bran over your cereal.

You will never be anything real in this lifetime. You cannot make your own reality. Not anymore.You have forgotten who you wanted to be. That isn't surprising. It's in the design.

What do disaffected people do when they get old? Does the sulking ever stop? You've made an art form out of sulking and wishing you were French.

There are other ways to live.
In books, in movies, bleak landscapes of cyberpunk worlds have been conjured, playgrounds for the disaffected and disenfranchised. You wonder how close that reality could be. You have, with your misbegotten aspirations, become unsuccessful in your lifetime. You will never afford to have all the things you need. You live an unfulfilled existence, and dream no American dream.

You can imagine living where people will fight to survive among the ruins of a corrupt technological-rich, spiritually-bereft world. It wouldn't take much lurching forward to come to that. Science fiction authors you've read and digested -- you pull their thoughts to your chest and ruminate. Here, on the landscape, one foot in the pretend veneer of a 50s family portrait and the other in a wasteland predicted by cynical visionaries. Thrust into an accelerated world with not enough of the technological advances that were actually possible because we, the corrupt, keep progress profitable only for our kind. Your rejection of us is your own doom. You make your bed and lie in it. We short-sheet your linens. For your own good. Wake up. The world is hopelessly lost, burgeoning at the seams with stuff, and yet so little has come to pass. Humanity sits on its ass. As you are doing. You are not poor, yet your biggest act of biggest charity was giving a panhandler $1.43 in spare change this morning. Usually, you never do. You are asked at least twenty times a day for money, and you don't have enough money for twenty people. So, you simply stopped, but feel guilty nonetheless because it's not the ideal.

But the one this morning popped out of no where in the fog, appeared at the intersection behind you as you waited for the light to change. He'd come from the direction of the overpass. The dirt and grime layered on him suggested that he might have spent the night there. He wrapped his arms around his thin body and shivered. You remember thinking how young, strikingly handsome and that he had on glasses like John Lennon. How odd that seemed. Conversationally, looking past you, he said, "Isn't the weather painful?"

You gave him all your change.

You take a long thoughtful sip of your four dollar "Makeitworkalatte" as you sit in the requisite cafe. Your blood work came back abnormal that afternoon. You take a sip of beer. Your bills were due yesterday. You pop another Xanax. This is what being an adult is about, isn't it? This isn't art. No one will buy your art, anyway. Will they?

You cyberpunk artists (or whatever label we'll exploit you by) distrust the powers-that-be. You might even complain that corporations have taken over the arts and make it near to impossible to achieve a dream, to be redeemed as an artist. Redemption? We will sell you indulgences, and nothing more.

I will only tell you this once and never again -- art doesn't lie in the money, in the bottom line, it lies in the souls of all humans, and anyone can access it regardless what they try to tell you.

Art is magick, magick is art, and it doesn't need to be dispensed by some Hierophant in a pin-striped suit. It just is. Perhaps those little squiggles drawn on newsprint and tacked up on the refrigerator are intrinsically as beautiful as Guernica. Just more people have seen and will see Guernica, and they bring their collective experience to it, worship it, lay their experiences before it. Picasso may have painted it, but thousands of others have shaped that painting since. It is owned by all of us, anyone who cares to find their own soul in it. That is what art is, it is a reaching out to others and giving them a place to put their own souls in.

And, sure, it makes money. Anything that sustains makes money. But art that doesn't make money is still art. Artists who never make money are still artists. The money thing is parallel, but not intrinsic, to the art.

In fact, if artists didn't need to eat and live and consume, the money thing might not matter at all. But they do. That is the most unfortunate thing.

And bloody little good that does you, does it? You can sigh. Think that no one understands. Everyone has it as bad as you, if not worse. You sip your whisky and gingerale and wonder. Wonder about the life you aspired to have as a child: money, influence, the ability to give your money to those who needed it -- which you thought you might have through art. Oh, you. You will cave in. You will soon be like us, think like us, worship like us, laugh like us, live like us.

Otherwise, you are the needy, not that needy, perhaps, but notice how you've never been able to do anything but tread water ever since you first were thrust into this go-to-work-pay-the-bills world. All of life seems dismal and indulgent, hurtful and strung out.

You walked into the club tonight, unabashed. Tonight is the night that you feel reproached, that you know that you didn't make the proper observances on the Equinox. You and your bloody ancient neo-religions. You're just trying to be weird, aren't you? We know that game.

Someone kisses the back of your neck, someone kisses your lips, but the next week, it's time to start all over again. It's too easy to use sex as an addiction. The supply is even more abundant than a good old-fashioned drug high, which is wrong anyway on this day, although in your formative years, it was so much the norm, and you don't understand how it suddenly became wrong.

This has become one of those nights, starting off alone, knowing somehow the person you wish to see won't appear. There was no reason to be moving through the club, waiting, hoping, just hanging around waiting for the love scene to manifest. There won't be any love scene. Wake up. You could go up to someone, say "wanna fuck?" and they might take you up on it, and it might be fun, but your viscera will gnaw at you, say to wait, find someone you can hold an entire conversation with, although you feel hopeless and at the mercy of your stupid stupid brain. Why do you bother? Why do you choose someone and attempt pursuit? You don't want to cage them, you don't want to have them. You want to love them, but it seems such an imposition to love people. They are forever disappearing. In one way or another. "All you need these days are a strand of pearls and the perfect little black dress."

Now, wouldn't it be better to do it our way? We have the programs and pamphlets telling just how it can be done. Just follow us, the chance to start again in a brand new world of limited opportunity and candy coated numbness is waiting just for you!

There is no accounting for humans. They spend their whole lives reaching for something. The slope of your neck, and the insecurity because you are not, you are not anything, and those you try to touch go running.

Why do you want to touch the ones in motion? Blossom Dearie, where are you now that we need you even more? Do pencils really come from Pennsylvania? Shall we cherish our questions, not our answers? Isn't the weather painful?

Cheers.

The Neely Sparkle

2 cup(s) Smirnoff No. 21 Vodka (25 oz. per bottle)
2 bottle(s) Moët & Chandon Champagne
1.25 cup(s) pomegranate juice
1 cup(s) simple syrup
thinly sliced lemon
Combine ingredients in a punch bowl with ice.
Add simple syrup to taste.
Mix in lemon slices.
Makes 18 servings

a baphometine vision

Something from the Archives:

Berlin is a curious city, I've been wanting to do this for a while.
I'm sitting on a brown velvet couch in the center of the Berlinische Galerie, facing a full-length portrait of Baladine Klossowska. It was executed by her brother, the painter Eugen Spiro.
In this painting a young Baladine dips to one side, arms extended, grasping a diaphanous black gown in her fingers. Lemon flowers tinged with green cluster around her face. An emerald jewel glitters on her forehead. It's all very theatrical, ostentatiously so. Her gown is like a sinister counterpoint to Loïe Fuller's ectoplasmic ruffling, twirling confection; underneath her dress she's ivory-limbed and lean (I divine); a pale pearl of a belly melts into mysterious green-gray shadowy regions; she's put rouge on her breasts and painted her knees pink... Underneath she is Salome, and strands of Jokanaan's fallen locks are woven into her petticoats and tucked amid the foliage in her coiffure. I'm pleased that the floor of the museum is echoed in the painting and that the black tips of my shoes correspond to the black tips of hers, which are shimmering with a patch of white light reflecting obnoxiously like a gemstone on velvet.
I've sat down today with the intent of summoning Baladine's breath, a la her son Pierre's baphometine vision of departed Templar saints and sinners. So it's a séance of sorts, even though I believe in ghosts, my thoughts are mixed about the afterlife so many people hope for, you know Heaven and all (though one can hope, in ghosts at least). In order to conduct this most make-shift of séances, I've armed myself with a copy of Klossowski's Baphomet, a Moleskin full of empty pages, and a pen poised in my hand, awaiting automatic instructions, babblings, whisperings, a rustle of silk, etc.

I imagine her breath smells like old, shattered silk. Or like rouged cheeks and camellias. A breath like hers would be a dervish in black crape, a whirlwind in suspension, cool and pale, stuttering gusts of broken poetry. (I am sure she is equally Ogier de Beauséant and Saint Theresa) It would hum and cry and coo and wail deliciously and it would whisper across my cheek frailly, describing to me the febrile and impassioned embrace of her poet. It would murmur a memory of his manhood, solid and well-formed, which also smells of camellias and rouge...
I shut my eyes and detect the breath of Theresa's ecstasy emanating from Rilke's roseate head, like ebullient ectoplasm curling through space . ..

Alas. Just then a wholly disruptive museum guard walks by and hesitates, glancing at my book, which has fallen open on my lap all fluttering and yellowing. I think she thinks I'm trespassing some norm of museum propriety which would prohibit impromptu/amateurish séance experiments orchestrated on three-way conversation furniture, and whether or not this is actually the case, she inquires after the title of my book, insisting that she's eternally grateful for new reading material. I flash the cover at her but the name Klossowski fails to make any notable impression, so I gesture at the portrait of Madame K. and explain the relationship in brief, but she's already darting off. She casts a phrase over her shoulder, something about Her being beautiful. Across the room I overhear a woman commenting on a set of well-formed nostrils. . . .

Cheers.
Mme. Baladine
1 oz apple brandy
1 oz apricot brandy
1/4 oz Pernod licorice liqueur
Shake ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice. Strain into a cocktail glass.

Chez les heureux du monde

On a cold Friday morning in January, a young violinist entered the Washington DC metro station during rush hour and, with barely anyone noticing, chose a wall to lean against, pulled his violin out of its case, and began to play. For 45 minutes, lost in a sea of analysts, policy managers, budget officers and contractors all on their way to work, the young man played. Nearly 1097 people passed by him. Of the thousands, only six people actually stopped to listen to him play and 20 people slowed just enough to give him money. He made $32.17.

When I read this story, I thought of a tale from The Phantom Tollbooth, when the main character, Milo, visits a city called Reality. Though once an extraordinary place full of glorious things to see, the citizens of Reality eventually realized that the quickest way to get from point A to point B is if one didn’t stop to admire the things that came in between. And so they began to walk faster and faster without ever looking up, without ever slowing down, and without ever stopping. Moving as fast as they did, they got to where they needed to be in record time, but at the sacrifice of their beloved city, and of course, their own lives. They never stopped to admire its beauty, they didn’t realize as it become uglier and dirtier each day, and they failed to notice as it disappeared completely. “They went right on living here just as they’d always done, in the houses they could no longer see and on the streets which had vanished, because nobody had noticed a thing. And that’s the way they have lived to this very day.”
The story of the violinist may seem unremarkable, and you may even be wondering why I’m telling it to you; except that that violinist wasn’t your average street musician. He was Joshua Bell, one of the most famous violinists in the world. The violin he played is almost 300 years old and worth over $3.5 million; and three days before that cold Friday morning in that subway station, he had played a sold out show at Boston’s Symphony Hall, where tickets go for a minimum of $100 each.
The land of the in-between, tucked neatly between where we are at this moment and where we need to be eventually, is absolutely pulsing with life. Let us take heed, therefore, that we have the wisdom and the courage to slow down just long enough to see it.
Cheers.
Elderflower Martini

1 oz elderflower cordial

1 oz Bombay Sapphire® gin

1 oz Cinzano® dry vermouth

1/2 oz lime juice
Combine all ingredients in a cocktail shaker half-filled with ice cubes. Shake until very chilled; serve immediately.

diner dans le cimetière

In light of the recent developments in my family life, you know, death, betrayal and all that lovely Southern Gothic stuff, I have been in a rather reflective mood.
During this period I have been lucky enough to spend quality time with people that I love, and over the July 4th holiday I had the good fortune to find myself among friends and extended family in lavishly appointed yet comfortably intimate interiors and exquisite gardens of that particularly lovely area of Long Island also known as the Summer Colony.

Upon my return to DC I thought I would do something fun to lift my spirits. So, naturally, I went to the boneyard, Rock Creek cemetery to be precise. While walking along, enjoying the unusually cool summer day, I happened across the tomb of Evalyn Walsh McLean an American mining heiress and socialite who was famous for being the last private owner of the Hope Diamond as well as another famous diamond, the Star of the East. (She's the original "Mrs. Gotrocks")
As I stood in front of the mausoleum, the dappled light streaming through the clouds, I thought, what an interesting life the old girl had. You can't write this stuff. Some peoples lives play out with great stories. I have decided my life has already been made in to a movie- or rather, movies, the ever changing character of my starring role has, thus far, been a mixture of the Oz obsessed waif Dorothy, played by Fairuza Balk in "Return to OZ", the bisexual cocaine-addict fashion model Margaret (Anne Carlisle) in "Liquid Sky" and the Helen Twelvetrees role as long suffering good girl in "Millie", OK, and a little Zerbinetta from "Ariadne auf Naxos" with a soupçon of Princess Ninetta from "The Love for Three Oranges" and Jackie O from "The House of Yes" thrown in for good measure.

Later, as I continued to stroll with my trusty hound Boudin, I came across the graves of Upton Sinclair, Rosalie Mackenzie Poe, (Edgars sister) Melville Bell, (Alexander Graham Bells dad) Charles Truman Jenkins, (Inventor of television) Charles Corby, (the inventor of baking technology used for Wonder Bread) and Howard Austen, you know, Gore Vidal's partner. (they met long after Vidal's relationship with Anaïs Nin and Joanne Woodward) Can you imagine what interesting dinner partners they would make? I'm sure the conversations around the bone yard get pretty lively around midnight... Cant you just see old Upton reading from his 1906 novel The Jungle over a nice boeuf bourguignon?

Cheers.

First Blush
2 oz Three Olives® vodka

1oz Canton® ginger liqueur
1.5oz agave juice
a squeeze of fresh lime juice

1 strawberry
4 basil leaves
In a mixing tin, muddle the strawberry, basil, and Agave nectar. Add the rest of the ingredients, shake very well with ice and strain into a glass. Garnish with a strawberry.

Ling Chi

What is the worst aberration?

That which we ignore, gravely holding out for wisdom?

That from which, when we see it, we know there is no escape?

- Bataille, Method of Meditation

requiescant in pace

For my brother. June 3, 1960- July 1, 2009

PEACE

Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,

And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,

With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,

To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,

Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,

Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,

And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,

And all the little emptiness of love!

Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,

Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,

Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;

Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there

But only agony, and that has ending;

And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
-Rupert Brooke

poppycock

OK. So today I am at the National Gallery, at 3:30pm, racing through the second floor with Mr. Moose, trying to find the four paintings called "The Voyage of Life" by Thomas Cole - a series of paintings that represent an allegory of the four stages of human life- that used to be on the first floor but now are in gallery #60, for some god-awful reason- before the parking meter expired on the south side of the building at 4 pm. After we found them, we took a moment to wander into the adjoining room so I could ramble on about the fashions depicted in the paintings by late 18th century British painters, and how the French court continued to influence the world even after the Revolution. Mid blab in front of the Gainsbourough and the Reynolds, I thought about Prince Poppycock.

“A Louis XIV confection or occasional Nancy Sinatra-esque chanteur/chanteuse in gold glitter boots with world-class vocal talent. Mr. Quale is a true artist and transforms himself Klaus Nomi style once he graces the stage. Nina Hagen would be proud, as would Diamanda Galas.” -Roy Rogers Oldenkamp for WeHoNews.com
"Part randy dandy, part rock star, part drunken courtesan, Poppycock instantly owns the audience with but a glance and a wiggle of bedazzled pantaloons, and that’s just the beginning. His operatic prowess, glamourous costumes and ostentatious prose leave not a heart unstirred. A masterpiece of self-transformation, the Prince is also recording artist John Quale, but I’m secretly hoping Poppycock will take over completely one day, to reign supreme in a glittery victory of feathers and gold spandex." I think he is simply divine.

Cheers.

Hummingbird's Tongue

1 oz bananas

1 oz coconut cream

1 oz creme de bananes

1 oz rum\1/2 oz Tia Maria® coffee liqueur

1 oz strawberries

crushed ice
Mix all ingredients in a blender until smooooooth.

of splendid obsequies

HARPER'S BAZAR: APRIL 17, 1886
MOURNING AND FUNERAL USAGES

[Victorian Etiquette for Funerals]

NOTHING in our country is more undecided in the public mind than the etiquette of mourning. It has not yet received that hereditary and positive character which makes the slightest departure from received custom so reprehensible in England. We have not the mutes, or the nodding feathers of the hearse, that still form part of the English funeral equipage; nor is the rank of the poor clay which travels to its last home illustrated by the pomp and ceremony of its departure. Still, in answer to some pertinent questions, we will offer a few desultory remarks, beginning with the end, as it were - the return of the mourner to the world.
When persons who have been in mourning wish to reenter society, they should leave cards on all their friends and acquaintances, as an intimation that they are equal to the paying and receiving of calls. Until this intimation is given, society will not venture to intrude upon the mourner's privacy. In cases where cards of inquiry have been left, with the words "To inquire" written on the top of the card, these cards should be replied to by cards with "Thanks for kind inquiries" written upon them; but if cards for inquiry had not been left, this form can be omitted.
Of course there is a kind of complimentary mourning which does not necessitate seclusion - that which is worn out of respect to a husband's relative whom one may never have seen. But no one wearing a heavy crape veil should go to a gay reception, a wedding, or a theatre; the thing is incongruous. Still less should mourning prevent one from taking proper recreation: the more the heart aches, the more should one try to gain cheerfulness and composure, to hear music, to see faces which one loves: this is a duty, not merely a wise and sensible rule. Yet it is well to have some established customs as to visiting and dress in order that the gay and the heartless may in observing them avoid that which shocks every one - an appearance of lack of respect to the memory of the dead- that all society may move on in decency and order, which is the object and end of the study of etiquette.
A heartless wife who, instead of being grieved at the death of her husband, is rejoiced at it, should be taught that society will not respect her unless she pays to the memory of the man whose name she bears that "homage which vice pays to virtue," a commendable respect to the usages of society in the matter of mourning and of retirement from the world. Mourning garments have this use, that they are a shield to the real mourner, and they are often a curtain of respectability to the person who should be a mourner but is not. We shall therefore borrow from the best English and American authorities what we believe to be the most recent usages in the etiquette of mourning.
As for periods of mourning, we are told that a widow's mourning should last eighteen months, although in England it is somewhat lightened in twelve. For the first six months the dress should be of crape cloth, or Henrietta cloth covered entirely with crape, collar and cuffs of white crape, a crape bonnet with a long crape veil, and a widow's cap of white crape if preferred. In America, however, widows' caps are not as universally worn as in England. Dull black kid gloves are worn in first mourning; after that Gants de Duede or silk gloves are proper, particularly in summer. After six months' mourning the crape can be removed, and grenadine, copeau fringe, and dead trimmings used, if the smell of crape is offensive, as it is to some people. After twelve months the widow's cap is left off, and the heavy veil is exchanged for a lighter one, and the dress can be of silk grenadine, plain black gros grain, or crape-trimmed cashmere with jet trimmings, and crepe lisse about the neck and sleeves.
All kinds of black fur and seal-skin are worn in deep mourning.
Mourning for a father or mother should last one year. During half a year should be worn Henrietta cloth or serge trimmed with crape, at first with black tulle at the wrists and neck. A deep veil is worn at the back of the bonnet, but not over the head or face like the widow's veil, which covers the entire person when down. This fashion is very much objected to by doctors, who think many diseases of the eye come by this means, and advise for common use thin nuns' veiling instead of crape, which sheds its pernicious dye into the sensitive nostrils, producing catarrhal disease as well as blindness and cataract of the eye. It is a thousand pities that fashion dictates the crape veil, but so it is. It is the very banner of woe, and no one has the courage to go without it. We can only suggest to mourners wearing it that they should pin a small veil of black tulle over the eyes and nose, and throw back the heavy crape as often as possible, for health's sake.
Jet ornaments alone should be worn for eighteen months, unless diamonds set as mementos are used. For half-mourning, a bonnet of silk or chip, trimmed with crape and ribbon. Mourning flowers, and crepe lisse at the hands and wrists, lead the way to gray, mauve, and white and black toilettes after the second year.
Mourning for a brother or sister may be the same; for step-father or step-mother the same; for grandparents the same; but the duration may be shorter. In England this sort of respectful mourning only lasts three months.
Mourning for children should last nine months. The first three the dress should be crape- trimmed, the mourning less deep than that for a husband. No one is ever ready to take off mourning; therefore these rules have this advantage - they enable the friends around a grief stricken mother to tell her when is the time to make her dress more cheerful, which she is bound to do for the sake of the survivors, many of whom are perhaps affected for life by seeing a mother always in black. It is well for mothers to remember this when sorrow for a lost child makes all the earth seem barren to them.
We are often asked whether letters of condolence should be written on blackedged paper. Decidedly not, unless the writer is in black. The telegraph now flashes messages of respect and sympathy across sea and land like a voice from the heart. Perhaps it is better than any other word of sympathy, although all who can should write to a bereaved person. There is no formula possible for these letters; they must be left to the individual's good taste, and perhaps the simplest and least conventional are the best. A card with a few words pencilled on it has often been the best letter of condolence.
In France a long and deeply edged mourning letter or address, called a faire part, is sent to every one known to the family to advise them of a death. In this country that is not done, although some mention of the deceased is generally sent to friends in Europe who would not otherwise hear of the death.
Wives wear mourning for the relatives of their husbands precisely as they would for their own, as would husbands for the relatives of their wives. Widowers wear mourning for their wives two years in England; here only one year. Widowers go into society at a much earlier date than widows, it being a received rule that all gentlemen in mourning for relatives go into society very much sooner than ladies.
Ladies of the family attend the funeral of a relative if they are able to do so, and wear their deepest mourning. Servants are usually put in mourning for the head of the family - sometimes for any member of it. They should wear a plain black livery and weeds on their hats; the inside lining of the family carriage should also be of black.
The period of mourning for an aunt or uncle or cousin is of three months' duration, and that time at least should elapse before the family go out or into gay company, or are seen at theatres or operas, etc.
We now come to the saddest part of our subject, the consideration of the dead body, so dear, yet so soon to leave us; so familiar, yet so far away - the cast-off dress, the beloved clay. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes!
As for the coffin, it is simpler than formerly; and while lined with satin and made with care, it is plain on the outside - black cloth, with silver plate for the name and silver handles, being in the most modern taste. There are but few of the "trappings of woe." At the funeral of General Grant, twice a President, and regarded as the savior of his country, there was a gorgeous catafalque of purple velvet, but at the ordinary funeral there are none of these trappings. If our richest citizen were to die to-morrow, he would probably be buried plainly. Yet it is touching to see with what fidelity the poorest creature tries to "bury her dead dacent." The destitute Irish woman begs for a few dollars for this sacred duty, and seldom in vain. It is a duty for the rich to put down ostentation in funerals, for it is an expense which comes heavily on those who have poverty added to grief.
In dressing the remains for the grave, those of a man are usually "clad in his habit as he lived." For a woman, tastes differ; a white robe and cap, not necessarily shroud-like, are decidedly unexceptionable. For young persons and children, white cashmere robes and flowers are always most appropriate.
The late Cardinal, whose splendid obsequies and whose regal "lying in state" were in keeping with his high rank and the gorgeous ceremonial of his Church, was strongly opposed to the profuse use of flowers at funerals, and requested that none be sent to deck his lifeless clay. He was a modest and humble man, and always on the right side in these things; therefore let his advice prevail. A few flowers placed in the dead hand, perhaps a simple wreath, but not those unmeaning memorials which have become to real mourners such sad perversities of good taste, such a misuse of flowers. Let those who can afford to send such things devote the money to the use of poor mothers who cannot afford to buy a coffin for a dead child or a coat for a living one.
In the course of a month after a death all friends of the deceased are expected to leave cards on the survivors, and it is discretionary whether these be written on or not. These cards should be carefully preserved, that, when the mourner is ready to return to the world, they may be properly acknowledged.

Cheers.

Peachy Death

3/4 oz vodka

3/4 oz peach schnapps

3/4 oz amaretto almond liqueur

Serve on the rocks. Great for picnics in the graveyard

M.J. la vie après la mort

A sensationally gifted child star who rose to become the “King of Pop” and the biggest celebrity in the world only to fall from his throne living through a freakish Gothic novel existence as well as a series of scandals, died today. An immense talent who at a young age provided a racially divided America music that brought people of all races together only to become a beloved icon as well as a provide a kind of precautionary tale of the pitfalls of the decedent and hedonistic bacchanal that is super stardom. Feeling a bitter yet strangely satisfying sense of irony, I watched live coverage of his body being routinely transported from helicopter into a simple van that was to transport the man -that was known to most of our planet for decades- to the county morgue. Death is indeed the great equalizer. As a side item, a whole lot of other people died today.
People who also might have had unusual relationships with monkeys or small boys. People who may also have hired someone to create children for them. People who also didn't pay their bills on time and who required a court order for selling off possessions to pay back their debt owed. People who hung their children out over a balcony. People who wore surgical masks and bizarre get ups in public. People that died owing a pharmacist over a hundred thousand dollars for a single years worth of medication. Yup. Just ordinary good people, with immense talents of their own, who push on through life trying to leave it slightly better than it was when they found it.
It is an understatement to say that he made some really innovative, amazing, uplifting and astonishingly great music. What will be his lasting legacy? Surely the music, but I am fascinated that people feel so strongly about a man that was sadly incapable of a normal relationship with his family or associates. I am curious about the immense adoration and the sense of ‘loss’ people are talking about. Sadly, for almost a decade he has been nothing more than fodder for the gossip mills, and artistically silent, not uncommon for an artistic genius of his caliber, but given his quite public downward spiral, should we really be surprised at the 'untimely' demise of someone who was a self professed Peter Pan, someone who wanted to "stay young forever"?
My one encounter with this megastar was in 1985 when he and his entire family were staying in the Ritz Carlton where I also happened to be at the time. The King had the most lux suite in the hotel and the banquet kitchen was reserved only for his personal chef who prepared all the meals for him and his entourage, but one night his sisters, one of whom a year later would make quite a name for herself as well, were inspired to have one the bodyguards to pop out and retrieve a large bucket of the Colonel's secret spicy chicken. A while later, a call came over the security guards radio that there was some trouble on the twelfth floor. (I know this because the radio was on the nightstand at the time- don't ask) the security guard rushed up to find that the King of Pop had eaten too much of the delicious chicky chicky bok bok, saw a large palmetto bug in his room and proceeded to have what the security report described as a "Hissy fit", ultimately barfing all over the once beautiful antique Tabriz carpet -with a lovely fish design medallion if I remember correctly- in the grand foyer of the suite. A team of housekeepers and a expert rug cleaner tried but failed to remove the stains, soon afterwards the carpet mysteriously vanished. I have a feeling that it will join the Shroud of Turin in its veneration one day.

A true showman in every way, in his dazzling costumes and his quirky personal style of dress has been an inspiration to me over the years, so in his memory, I've made a solemn promise to myself to break from the gay herd and give up the habit of wearing that ubiquitous article of style-less clothing known as "cargo shorts" during the summer months -That is, once I am flush enough to afford a proper Hermes "Kelly" man-purse to carry my Demerol around in - and a Balmain Jackson-esque military jacket.

Bon Voyage.

Jesus Juice

4 oz Bell's® Scotch whisky

4 oz Smirnoff® vodka

4 oz Foster's® lager

4 oz Strongbow® cider

1 splash blackcurrant squash
Get a beer glass, and fill a 1/4 of it with the whisky. Add vodka until half full, then the Fosters beer until 3/4 full. Add the cider 'til glass is almost full. Add a hint of blackcurrant squash.

frosty the golem

“My substance was not hid from thee, when I was made in secret, and curiously wrought in the lowest parts of the earth.” - Psalms 139:15

There seems to be a significant amount of strange and supernatural phenomenon in childhood entertainment, from the Brothers Grimm and Harry Potter to the Disney classics. Now I hear there is "Twilight" Barbie- as Bella- with vampire Ken, um, I mean Edward. (complete with sparkle skin)

I think it is lovely, for it guarantees that there will always be dark little thoughts formed alongside all of the faux wholesome tripe that is constantly forced down the throats of the child fortunate enough to be a scion of these times. Balance, you know, is so important.
Pondering these noir childhood entertainments, combined with the balmy weather, makes me think about the season that lies six or so months from now, it gives a new perspective on the Ho-Ho-Holiday stories that we all take for granted in the winter months, and nothing says "supernatural vengeance" like a mass of unliving natural materials animated and set on a path of justice by those who have suffered at the hands of others.

Frosty the Snowman, the sanitized Rankin-Bass television special aside, is a Golem in the traditional sense.The famous seasonal song immortalized by Gene Autry holds much clear evidence as to Frosty's origins and ultimate purpose. The lyrics of the tune are easy enough to interpret correctly. Frosty is in actuality a creature of Old Testament-style power created by Kabala-worshiping children to correct the inequities they suffered at the hands of the citizens and from the horrible pogroms of the anti-Semitic town in which they reside. Lacking tools or anything that could be used as a weapon the desperate and faithful children build a Golem of legend out of the only material they could easily manipulate and gather: Snow.
By placing a hat (very likely a yarmulke) imbued with powerful magic upon a humanoid form fashioned of inanimate matter, a Golem is brought to a semblance of life by a vengeful God in answer to the children's anguished prayers. Dubbed "Frosty"by the innocent and non-ironic children, the creature is sent from its birthing place in the forest armed with a "broomstick" (rather, a huge club of some sort) into the village on a mission of vengeance. Song scribes Steven "Jack" Rollins and Steve Nelson do not even attempt to hide the terrible descriptions of the Snow-Golem's murderous spree of righteous retribution to be found in the lyrics of the song.
The phrase "Thumpety thump thump" is repeated several times during the song, succinctly describing not the martial tune of an impromptu parade of happy children following an imaginary character into innocent play, but rather the continuous blows of icy fists made hard as granite by the bitter cold against the flesh of those who would oppress the innocent. Frosty's first target of retribution upon entering the village is a "police officer" who is actually the symbol of racist, intolerant government and authority. Just as in the classic legend of the Golem, once the ice creature completes it's mission it departs and returns to its previous state of lifeless, inanimate matter, promising to "be back again some day" if needed to mete out swift punishment against evil-doers.
While it is true that the Golem is merely a weapon that acts as the instrument of God's will sometimes not all of the missions end in large scale destruction and death. On occasion God is merciful and Frosty the Golem is set on a path not of destruction but enlightenment.
In the story adapted from ancient legends for the 1954 issue of Dell Comics "Frosty the Snowman" the Golem is summoned by a victim of intolerance and battles racism by the simple act of patrolling a village. Frosty the Golem appears harmless and even helpful in the all-ages version of the tale, but doubtlessly the very presence of the creature forced the terrified citizenry to re-think their intolerant ways and accept the cultures and people that do not act, think, worship or dress as they do.
Earlier audiences were treated the with “The Snowman,” a 1932 classic from Ted Eshbaugh. This is the cheerful story of a jolly little boy and his jolly pet seal who live above the jolly arctic circle, having a jolly old time with all the other jolly animals until one day when they build a snowman who comes to life and becomes a horrible flesh eating monster. Grrr.
Yeah, well, this is the same Eshbaugh who gave us “The Sunshine Makers”, so you knew the ride was gonna be a little twisted. No telling how many baby boomers sought therapy in their middle years as a direct result of multiple childhood viewings of this golden oldie.

There is supposed to be a real golem in Prague. It lies waiting. Inhuman, both protector and destroyer. All he needs is one word to be brought to horrifying life. The origin of this unthinking giant can be found in an appropriately macabre place; its creator lies buried in the oldest Jewish cemetery in all of Europe. The cemetery was established in the mid 1400’s and was part of Josefov, the Jewish Ghetto, an area created as a way of oppressing and controlling the Jewish population of Prague. With only a tiny plot of land on which it was legal for Jews to bury their dead, it was a crowded affair from the very start. Used until 1787, it came to contain the skeletal remains of over 100,000 Prague Jews. Graves were layered one on top of the other like pages in a book, reaching up to 12 deep. No doubt over time the simple coffins have disintegrated and the skeletons have drifted into complex three dimensional patterns of bone. The Old Jewish cemetery in Prague a wonder to behold. A stone forest of over 12,000 slabs grows from the mossy earth. The ground rolls and undulates through the cemetery and the massively weighty gravestones lean against each other at odd angles like a group of old drunks. One coffin along the winding path through the cemetery stands out from the rest. The large bed-shaped headstone is the resting spot of Rabbi Judah Lew ben Bezalel, or as he is often known, the Maharal of Prague. While he was an important Jewish figure for a number of reasons, he is remembered for one thing above all. His hands were the one that brought to life that proto-Frankenstein, that original man-made monster, the Golem of Prague. In 1580 the Jewish community was under attack, and was about to be accused of a ritual child murder, a common way a arousing public hatred against Jews and inciting a mob to anti-Jewish violence. It was also an excuse often used to expel the entire Jewish community from a city. Worried, the Maharal asked God what to do. That night in his dreams he was given instructions on how to create a Golem: a creature made of clay. Even for the holiest of men creating life is forbidden by Jewish law, but in this case an exception was to be made. The task would be a dangerous one. He was to use the “Shem Hameforash”, the true name of God, a word so powerful that it could easily kill its speaker. After purifying himself, the Maharal went to the river, and by torchlight sculpted a giant body out of the river clay. After performing the complicated rituals from his dream, he wrote the word Emet, meaning God’s truth, across the muddy forehead. The Golem’s fiery eyes snapped opened to his master. The Golem is soulless and unintelligent, a brute enforcer. It is said the Golem successfully defended the Jewish community against its aggressors, but that as it grew larger and larger it began attacking Gentiles and terrifying Prague. In some tales the Golem turns even on the Jews and its own creator. Eventually the Maharal was forced to destroy the creature by wiping off the first letter written on its forehead, changing the word from Emet, or God’s truth, to the word Met or death. However the body of the Golem was to be stored in the attic of the Synagogue in Prague. Perhaps the Golem still resides there today, waiting for the word, waiting to be summoned.

Can a golem G.I. Joe action figure be far behind? Hmmm... Until then, here is a little article from some magazine called the "New York Times" http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/11/world/europe/11golem.html?_r=1
Cheers.

Monster Piss

1 1/2 oz Absolut® lemon vodka

1 1/2 oz Captain Morgan® Parrot Bay coconut rum

4 oz pine-orange-banana juice

2 oz Sprite® soda

Mix everything in a cocktail shaker with ice, shake and pour into glass. Add the sprite to the glass. Grrrr.

Sigmund the Sea Monster and Ex Oblivione

I have been imbibing in a little frothy summer reading as of late. Usually at bed time.
Nothing relaxes one more after a long day hacking through the Glamour Jungle than perusing a slim volume of histoires de sortilège. Just a little Poe, Lovecraft or a little Evelyn Waugh, for example, always helps send me off to dream land.
The best part are the creative dreams that come about after reading these authors. Here is my latest dream, hmmm how shall I explain it... Lets see if I can explain it in a mathematical equation. OK it goes something like this: Sid and Marty Krofft + H.P. Lovecraft = S&M Lovekrofft... "The Call of Sigmund!" *sigh* Did I ever tell you the story about Me, Johnny Whitaker and the co-star from "The Mystery In Dracula's Castle", Scott Kolden? Oh, well. Maybe some cold evening in front of the fire...

So now then, here's a bedtime story! Enjoy.

Ex Oblivione

When the last days were upon me, and the ugly trifles of existence began to drive me to madness like the small drops of water that torturers let fall ceaselessly upon one spot of their victims body, I loved the irradiate refuge of sleep. In my dreams I found a little of the beauty I had vainly sought in life, and wandered through old gardens and enchanted woods.
Once when the wind was soft and scented I heard the south calling, and sailed endlessly and languorously under strange stars.
Once when the gentle rain fell I glided in a barge down a sunless stream under the earth till I reached another world of purple twilight, iridescent arbours, and undying roses.
And once I walked through a golden valley that led to shadowy groves and ruins, and ended in a mighty wall green with antique vines, and pierced by a little gate of bronze.
Many times I walked through that valley, and longer and longer would I pause in the spectral half-light where the giant trees squirmed and twisted grotesquely, and the grey ground stretched damply from trunk to trunk, sometimes disclosing the mould-stained stones of buried temples. And always the goal of my fancies was the mighty vine-grown wall with the little gate of bronze therein.
After awhile, as the days of waking became less and less bearable from their greyness and sameness, I would often drift in opiate peace through the valley and the shadowy groves, and wonder how I might seize them for my eternal dwelling-place, so that I need no more crawl back to a dull world stript of interest and new colours. And as I looked upon the little gate in the mighty wall, I felt that beyond it lay a dream-country from which, once it was entered, there would be no return.
So each night in sleep I strove to find the hidden latch of the gate in the ivied antique wall, though it was exceedingly well hidden. And I would tell myself that the realm beyond the wall was not more lasting merely, but more lovely and radiant as well.
Then one night in the dream-city of Zakarion I found a yellowed papyrus filled with the thoughts of dream-sages who dwelt of old in that city, and who were too wise ever to be born in the waking world. Therein were written many things concerning the world of dream, and among them was lore of a golden valley and a sacred grove with temples, and a high wall pierced by a little bronze gate. When I saw this lore, I knew that it touched on the scenes I had haunted, and I therefore read long in the yellowed papyrus.
Some of the dream-sages wrote gorgeously of the wonders beyond the irrepassable gate, but others told of horror and disappointment. I knew not which to believe, yet longed more and more to cross forever into the unknown land; for doubt and secrecy are the lure of lures, and no new horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace. So when I learned of the drug which would unlock the gate and drive me through, I resolved to take it when next I awaked.
Last night I swallowed the drug and floated dreamily into the golden valley and the shadowy groves; and when I came this time to the antique wall, I saw that the small gate of bronze was ajar. From beyond came a glow that weirdly lit the giant twisted trees and the tops of the buried temples, and I drifted on songfully, expectant of the glories of the land from whence I should never return.
But as the gate swung wider and the sorcery of the drug and the dream pushed me through, I knew that all sights and glories were at an end; for in that new realm was neither land nor sea, but only the white void of unpeopled and illimitable space. So, happier than I had ever dared hope to be, I dissolved again into that native infinity of crystal oblivion from which the daemon Life had called me for one brief and desolate hour.

- H. P. Lovecraft

Cheers and pleasant dreams!

Tokyo Tea

1/2 oz vodka

1/2 oz rum

1/2 oz gin

1/2 oz 1800® Tequila

1/2 oz triple sec

1 oz Midori® melon liqueur
Combine all ingredients in a cocktail shaker. Shake, strain into a small highball glass filled with ice, and serve.

she's in parties (part cinq)

"And malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man." -A.E. Housman

Ah drinking. The Booze, the Hooch, the ruin of many a good man and the shaper of empires. Why, my own father ran rum over the Canadian border during the Prohibition days, the so called noble experiment, he made quite a nice fortune of it really, working for Jewish gangsters in Chicago. Really. I know, Jewish gangsters... huh. I also learned that the word Hooch came from the Hoochinoo Indians in Alaska that made an especially potent bootleg liquor, yeah, I know, funny that.

Anyway, there is a time and place for everything and I think that this would be a nice time to ramble off about drinking. How to do it and what to drink.

How, of course is the most important thing I shall talk about because, just like piloting an aeroplane or having sex, its much more conducive to a "happy landing", shall we say, if one knows how to properly conduct oneself in the "drivers seat." It is much much more than tipping back ones little beaky and guzzling the last of the tequila along with the worm. Oh yes, there is a certain protocol one must adhere to.

The Why of Hooch

But first why drink at all? As the how of drinking properly is not really a matter of manners, the why is that it is a matter of necessity, as modern life would be unbearable if one had to always face it stone cold sober. Think "piano recital featuring ten year old children".

There now, don't you agree? Hmmmm?

Speaking of ten year olds, the Drink is most important for young people because it provides a sort of "liquid adulthood."
If you are young and drink a great deal it will spoil your health, slow your mind, age your face horribly until you resemble an apple-head doll - if you know what that is you get the visual- and make you fat in the most unattractive areas of your body.

In other words, it turns you into an adult. If you want to have one of those great, beefy, impressively red faces that politicians and corporation presidents have, better start drinking as early in life and stay with it. Heavy drinking will also give you a mature and authoritative-sounding voice, especially when combined over a long time spent in smoky bars.

If you are are older, alcohol is even more important. Even if you are a follower of Objectivism, it provides you with all of those things that are lacking in modern life because of the rapid disappearance of organized religion and domestic servants. Booze makes you feel important when you are not, it makes you feel sexy when you are not, it makes you feel witty, well, etc. and so forth. If you are important, sexy or witty, it makes you have a smug sense of security, and it gives you the incontrovertible reason not to have sexual relations. And, what's best, is the fact that booze can provide the one thing so many adults are so laking these days, sleep.

The other side of the coin is that it is the tried and true method of slowly and methodically ending your life prematurely, ala the Barrymore family and their ilk.

The single drawback in ones attempt at self destruction is that you may not drink enough and will see the things come to pass that you have been dreading, like the greenhouse effect, nuclear war, years of bad television and becoming one of those crazy old drunks -you know, the ones that think they are Ab Fabulous but are indeed not- that outlive all of their peers and are bumming drinks at resort hotel bars and wearing iridescent white sunglasses that match their lipstick. (and their adult diapers)
There is a side to drinking that does have to do with courtesy, however. That is, there are times when it would be very bad manners to be sober. Some of these occasions are at a funeral of someone you knew or claimed to, your daughter's wedding reception, your own wedding reception, a Bris Milah- unless you are the Mohel- and anytime the Dow-Jones average drops more than 500 points in a day. Not to be a little tight during these situations will make you seem, unfeeling, insensitive, and in the case of the last, financially inconsequential.

And that would drive one to drink.

Cheers.

Altas Shrugged

perfect for summer reading and/or drinking
2 parts Senator's Club® whiskey

1 part Blue Curacao liqueur

1 splash orange juice

fill with cranberry juice

Mix in shaker with ice. Strain and serve.

she's in parties (part quatre)

Today I had a bit of a rude awakening. The "Stuffed Animal Bed-Side Lite Opera Ensemble", headed by spokes-plushes Polie and The Monkey, announced to me that it was time to present a new piece, something about stipulations in their contracts, blah blah blah, so I am now committed to finish writing the epic "Porky and Asbestos", an opera about the rise of a humble yet beautiful young pig from the blush of youth through a tumultuous career with OSHA. Look for it playing in my bed in the near future.

Thinking about opera got me thinking- about opera. I have always been a big fan. Why, right before I was born, my Dear Papa and Mam'zelle went to see Maria Callas as Medea in a rare US performance. Mother recalls that when Callas walked up the long set of stairs on the stage in her red wig and blood-smeared costume, grasping a blood-stained knife with which she has killed her two children, I kicked her so hard, she lost her breath.
I didn't want her getting any ideas, always looking ahead, that's me.

For many people, the word opera only brings to mind funny visual images like Bugs Bunny in drag as Valkyrie Brünnhilde opposite Elmer Fudd as the demigod Siegfried in composer Richard Wagner's opera Der Ring des Nibelungen. This is not at all a bad thing, that cartoon gave many a young person the important message that opera is not only totally accessible, but that sometimes its good to shake it up a little, to blow the dust off as it were.
I saw Ken Russell's production of Madama Butterfly (Puccini) during Spoleto and again in Houston. It was unbelievable. The "cast" was mingling around outside the opera house (in full costume) and I had this great feeling like I was in the middle of a Ken Russell movie.
Russell said in an interview, "I wanted to get across Puccini's message- the real clash between East and West. I mean, I feel the piece was prophetic. Why, for example, should Puccini have chosen to set in in Nagasaki? He could have chosen hundreds of other places in Japan. Well, when I saw that, the rest just fell into place. I worked back from the bomb and ended up in a brothel".
Ken's direction includes Madama Butterfly putting a Mickey Mouse mask on her child to illustrate his Americanization, at the wedding feast the sailors bring cans of beer. During the beautiful and moving "Coro a bocca chiusa" when Suzuki and Cio-Cio San (Madama Butterfly) are spreading flower blossoms around the place -in the usual production- to prepare for the return of her beloved, Russell has Butterfly spread corn flakes around instead. Russell ends the opera with Butterfly committing suicide- not in front of a statue of Buddha but instead in front of the Frigidaire ice box, a present from Pinkerton, and with a simulation of the explosion of the atom bomb, cleverly staged by suddenly flashing two hundred keg lights arranged around the front of the stage, pointed at the audience- that makes for blinding yet truly brilliant theater.
For some it is a sad thing that opera has become so accessible and wide spread, that it is getting harder and harder to admit that you know nothing about it. No worries, my lips are sealed.

And so this primer is for the ill informed and designed to help you keep your head at least above water with a real aficionado (who won't let you talk much anyway) you may have the chance to chat with at a cocktail party, wake or post-coitally and to dazzle the countless people who think that opera is only for the very rich or the very clever. (You want to be at least one of these.)

General information is that Italian operas have beautiful melodies, German operas are long and "heavy", French opera has ballets and choruses, Russian opera is Boris Godunov, British opera is Benjamin Britten, is in English, but is totally indecipherable, and American Opera is not an issue- sneer at the mere suggestion- but say you like Akhnaten written by composer Philip Glass, simply because it's libretto is true to its eighteenth dynasty (1336 BC or 1334 BC.) Egyptian storyline, and on occasion you have enjoyed Gershwin's Porgy and Bess only for it's guileless charm.

And then there is Mozart.

A word or two about Mozart, he wrote his first opera when he was twelve. it's called La Finta Semplice, is short and uninteresting, "but isn't it amazing that a twelve year old could write an opera?" Don Giovanni is arguably the greatest opera ever written, but the Magic Flute (refer to it merely as "Flute" in conversation) has the most glorious music. The Marriage of Figaro is delightful, and it is okay to prefer it in English, because "so much of the wonderful humour is lost in Italian." This and Die Fledermaus are the only operas you will not prefer in the original language.

As for Wagner and his problems, he was first and foremost a rotten human being. He was married to Franz Liszt's daughter, but he cheated on her. He wrote the words and the music to his operas, and was Hitler's favorite composer. The Ring cycle is sixteen hours long and is too much to digest, but you "love Tristan and Isolde, it has such sensual music."

Verdi vs. Puccini" Verdi is greater, but you find Puccini far more "moving and realistic."

Verdi wrote in three basic periods- early, middle and late- really, this is real opera terminology.

Verdi wrote Othello when he was seventy-three and Falstaff when he was seventy-nine, you find them "right up there with Don Giovanni for greatness."

Puccini died right before he finished Turandot, someone else finished it, just like when Bela Lugosi died during the filming of "Plan Nine from Outer Space". Hmmm, well sort of.

A general roundup of other composers include Rossini, who retired at thirty-seven and threw parties in Paris, Bellini, who died at thirty-three and wrote operas that are hard to sing, Donizetti, who contracted syphilis and wrote very little after he was thirty-five. He did however manage to squeeze in almost seventy operas. And of course the one hit wonder of the opera world, Mascagni, who never wrote anything as good as Cavalleria Rusticana.

There now. This should be enough knowledge for you to buck the most headstrong opera buff in a social situation, but next time you are at the nearest Barnes and Noble looking at "Art Photography", wander over and crack a book of opera stories, you'll be hooked.

Cheers.

The Opera House Special

1 shot 1800® Tequila

1 shot gin

1 shot white rum

1 shot vodka
1 shot pineapple juice

1 shot orange juice

1 shot sweet and sour mix

Add all ingredients to a metal mixer and strain into a shot glass. Now you can sit through the entire Ring Cycle, albeit in an alcoholic stupor...

she's in parties (part trois)

"If you were to make little fishes talk, they would talk like whales." -Oliver Goldsmith
"Even when given more than a thousand choices, people prefer the sound of their own voices."- le Cornichon

Searching for successful ways and means in the quest to being an upstanding citizen, socially that is, is a task that can be as daunting as the search for Flaubert's Parrot, The Holy Grail or finding something in my size from the Jean Pierre Braganza Autumn/Winter ‘09 collection. (*sigh* I need those fur shoes...) To start with, it is of the utmost importance to let the world know you exist. To "blow your own horn" so to speak. The best way to let yourself heard, is, well, to let yourself be heard. The shrewed art of conversation has been key to the rise of such sows ears to silk purses as Helena Rubinstein, who was a keen conversationalist and also known for apocryphal quips, such as when an intoxicated French ambassador expressed vitriol toward Edith Sitwell and her brother Sacheverell: “Vos ancêtres ont brûlé Jeanne d’Arc!” “What did he say?," Rubinstein, who knew little French, asked a guest. “He said, ‘Your ancestors burned Joan of Arc.’ ” Rubinstein replied, "Well, someone had to do it". Cheeky monkey that Helena...

But why talk at all? How clever and original to be silent, But no one in their right mind does that, because talking accomplishes so many things that silence cannot. Conversation gives substance to vaporous emotions, room to air hidden anxieties. It exalts the ego, perfects the self image and puts your mark on the environment. When you go around the room at a party, speaking to each person in turn, you're like a naughty kitty marking every corner of a new penthouse. Bad puss puss.
In the present philosophical haze, talk is used as a sort of foghorn for the ship of the mind. It announces your ever shifting opinions on things in the hope that you will escape having your hull punctured by such metaphysical icebergs as religious fundamentalism, solving the economic downturn or support for the wars raging on in "those dusty parts of the planet." The fact that foghorns are useless for avoiding icebergs only improves the metaphor.
Conversations also help fill certain voids in existence. In a world in which we are constantly bombarded by stimuli- broadcast media, Muzak, bright lights, bold graphics, scents: indeed, sounds sights and smells of every kind- even the damned cheerful sounds of birds singing, for some reason, in those ungodly hours before noon when proper persons are still sleeping- there are still moments of quiet repose and calm. You can get rid of them by talking. One thing mere talk cannot accomplish, however, is communication. This is because every body's talking too much to pay attention to what anyone else is saying. Real communication therefore should be done through lawyers or through the purchasing of air time for a late night infomercial.
Actually people do pay attention every now and then if what is being said is intensely personal. Therefore people will always listen to Flattery and Gossip. These sisters are very important gals to get acquainted with in your rise to the top of the dung heap, um, I mean social ladder, of course... Lets invite them up into our Chanel Tree-house, shall we? Oh look. cupcakes! Yums. Let's begin.

The beauty of flattery is that it is so easy. Say anything that pops into your head, "What lifelike maquillage you are wearing this evening Countess!" or "Oh twaddle, hairy knuckles are this seasons must have, Your Majesty!" See how easy it is? Flattery is like money, it does not need to have any intrinsic worth, and neither its source nor the intended object of its use deprives it of any charm in peoples eyes. You cannot go to far with flattery, if you want to be polite. Tell people they're brilliant, beautiful, important and accomplished with the morals of a saint. This is known as lying, but it is old fashioned but still widely used by those people who are smart enough to know whether they are telling the truth or not.
A much more modern approach than lying, one that requires less thought and energy, is to develop a lack of personal sense of judgement, so thorough that you really believe the people you are talking to are brilliant, beautiful, important and accomplished with the morals of a saint. This state can be achieved by not paying attention to what anyone says for twenty or so years or by drinking grain alcohol for breakfast- not recommended if you carpool.
Gossip is what you say about the objects of flattery when they aren't present. Gossip is very similar to flattery in that sense and judgement should play no part in its formulation. Gossip can far more solidly grounded in fact than flattery, especially vicious gossip, given the way most people conduct themselves these days, this should pose no problem.
Never gossip about people you don't know, the best subject of gossip is someone you and your audience know and love dearly, the enjoyment of gossip is thus doubled: "To the delight of disapprobation is added the additional delight of pity." Mmmm delish, I know.

So, make sure you audience not only loves the person that you are telling something dreadful about, but also the kind of dreadfulness about which you are telling. That is, if you are speaking to thieves, gossip about someone stealing. The thieves will have an intimate understanding of the subject and in addition ill be flattered that you assume they are honest; if you didn't, you wouldn't be be talking about thievery and such in front of them... win win win...as they say.... somewhere, I think in corporate cubes- or rather cubicle.... um, things.

A far superior topic for gossip than stealing is, of course, sex. This is because most sex acts take place in private and are easy to deny, and, mon petite, nothing indicts like denial. Other worthwhile subjects of your precious venom are secret drunkenness and drug addiction. You certainly can also gossip about someones public drug or alcohol consumption that 9 out of 10 times if asked they will freely admit to, and if a person has no shame about his behavior, it's really your duty to supply some. Bon mots and bouquets are sure to follow, as manners are supposed to increase the pleasure, and half the pleasure of acting up is the feeling of having done something terribly naughty or socially forbidden.

It would be wrong, however, to assume that all gossip is negative. You can gossip about your friends tremendous success, like the faboo movie directing job he just got by stealing the idea from someone else- that will remain nameless (toujours- oui? ha ha) and committing a perverted sex act that included a Barbie doll in the roll of the Christ Child's Immaculate birth with the producer. Whatever your tidbit of prime boeuf is, make sure you tell your audience not to say they heard it from you. This will, of course, remind them to say that you did. It's an old trick, albeit a sneaky one, but you don't want all the gruesome stories that took you so long to dig up being circulated without attribution. Progeny being Destiny and all that rot. Yawn. More later- you are looking a little tired dear. Are you sleeping well? Oh well, here's a wee nightcap to conjure up old Morpheus... or is it Hypnos... a white trash elixir that will knock you off your Manolo's.

The Southern Death Cult

2 oz Jack Daniel's® Tennessee whiskey

2 oz Southern Comfort® peach liqueur

2 oz Wild Turkey® bourbon whiskey

3 oz Coca-Cola

3 oz 7-Up soda
Put ice in a highball glass and the add the liquors. Top the glass off with Coke and 7-up and a lemon twist. Stir. Do not under any circumstances tell anyone where you got this recipe. Promise? Oh goody.

she's in parties (part two)

"Members of the upper class, love the sound of breaking glass." - Maurice Barring

"A Gentleman is one who never inflicts pain." -Cardinal Newman
"Unintentionally." -Oscar Wilde

The subtle and magical art of acting up is, I am afraid , a bit of a dying art, outside of a ivied walls of the Skull and Bones "Tomb", the so called secret society at Yale University, or the bar at the Ritz in Paris on a Thursday night. Knowing the difference between acting up and acting the fool is as important as knowing the difference between Lerner and Loewe and Leopold and Loeb.

I started my own career in the art of acting up as a wee child, (until then I was just dabbling really) in an experiment that went rather well. I came bounding into the sitting room at age two, and proceeded to pull my rompers down to my ankles, bend over and called the new puppy into the room to lick my ass. All this in front of the noticeably startled Archbishop that was having tea and, until that moment, a more or less pleasant conversation with my parents at the time. I went pro a few years later when I took it upon myself to steal... excuse me, borrow, the skeleton key that my Bisnonna Tick Tock always kept with her- the key to all the rooms in her enormous plantation house, including the rooms that I, or anyone, were not allowed in- this act not only led to the rising of my starring role as the Duke of never-ending naughtiness, it also led to my fascination of all things slightly macabre and/or decorated with skulls as well as the realization that my life was to be one big Southern Gothic novel. With extra sparkles please.

I suppose it is important to explain my desire to borrow this important key from my Bisnonna; quite simple actually, I had started pretending, on a regular basis, that I was a secret KGB operative by the name of May-Ling Mitsuko, and the key was to the nuclear missile launcher. See? Doesn't that make perfect sense? Of course it does.

Truly, it is in my humble opinion that it is a basic tenant of modern manners that everyone likes to act up. There is nothing wrong with this, but remember what I have said before about rules, like table manners, and be sure you are fully aware of which rules you are breaking, as the only unforgivable acts of misbehavior are accidental. Ignorance of the law is no defence and ignorance of the laws of etiquette is a crime in itself. (punishable by unthinkable tortures like being made to wear black shoes with a brown belt for six months to a year, or worse, during The Season)

Now, if you throw a drink in the face of a congressman, it will be regarded as a political statement, or as a moral judgement if you are from New Orleans, or as an enviable thing others have been dying to do. But if you did not know he was a congressman, it will be regarded as a felonious assault. - with me so far? Oh, goody.

Once you know what you're doing is wrong, it's easy to learn how to get away with it. The first technique of misbehavior is to be cute. When generations after World War II began to act up, they wore flowers and feathers in their hair, painted their bodies with fluorescent paint, danced around in a drugged haze at city parks, and went around sticking daisies into rifle barrels. The media adored it because it was cute, but later when the same people began doing things like threatening to vote, it was necessary to give them the brown acid and kill them at Kent State. Their worst violation of course was their decision to grow old and become lawyers and congressmen, to be cute you must be young or at least appear so, even if only mentally. If you had a great big adult dog that whined all night, chewed your Manolo's to bits and piddled on Great Grand Ma-Ma's rug, you would have it put down, but when a puppy does those things it's cute. If you absolutely positively cant find it in you realm of experience to be cute, be rich.

Rich people are allowed to water stock issues, manipulate commodity prices, and trade bonds with privileged information gained on the squash court. The equivalent sort of things, when done by the poor, are called stealing. The same double standard applies to a number of other activities such as operating motor vehicles under the influence (as long as the motor vehicle is a 50 foot yacht) and creating a public nuisance, like Frank Gehry's Walt Disney Concert Hall in Downtown Los Angeles. We allow a great deal of latitude to the rich, this is our way of making it up to them for creating a society in which everything can be had, for a price, but indeed, nothing that is offered is worth having. (except cake) Even better than being cute or rich is being pretty.

Pretty people are forgiven absolutely everything and anything they do, There is a good reason for this, if it weren't for them, our sexual fantasies would be ever so much the duller and there would have never been the phenomenon of "Friends" and it's one-million-dollar-an-episode-a-cast-member-apiece price paid for such dull comedy.

If you are adult, homely, and what is known as poor, the best thing to do is to be charming. Try to make the bad things you do fun for absolutely everyone. If you are drinking and driving and you smash you car into someone else's car, be equipped to give the other driver a drink as well, and always be sure to offer one to the police when they arrive, although it won't keep you out of the inevitable trouble that surely will follow, it certainly makes for a more festive get-together for all parties involved.

If you lack charm, claim insanity. Being insane is an excellent way to get away with silly and impulsive behavior like throwing a shoe at the President or a running chainsaw at a lover. (toujours. ha ha.) The only problem with the insanity plea is that insanity has become so fashionable these days that you may run across a judge that is as crazy as you are and could end up in something much worse than jail, such as being bent over said judges lap wearing a pinafore and a bonnet having your ass spanked on a bi-weekly basis or a three book deal with a questionable publisher.

If none of this is working, (takes big gulp of absinthe) turn the destruction on yourself. When you have been around the dance floor at the bachelors cotillion discreetly shooting bleach out of a water pistol on the other dancers finery, don't forget your own brand new seven thousand dollar Alexander McQueen suit. You will hardly notice a difference.

When you are busting up someones collection of Boheme china birds, bust them onto your own forehead. (nothing cuts as well as bisque china, outside of coral) It's people who live in brick houses who shouldn't throw stones, for by hurting yourself you show others that what you're doing is "adorable" and "extravagant" or "uncontrollable" because of your nature, not aggressive. This, my dears, was the difference in Jim Jones on Guyana and Charlie Manson in LA, for instance. Sort of.

Speaking of suicide- and we were- that's a great ploy too, if you've been very, very bad. With a little experimentation you will find there are a dozen way to cut yourself around the wrist area and bleed all over the place without actually causing any lasting damage- other than the carpet- or, you don't actually have to do anything at all, just call a friend or someone whom has been on the receiving end of your acting up, and say that you have taken an entire bottle of Nembutal, or whatever it is the kids are doing these days. Everything will be forgiven, but of course the hospital will insist on pumping your stomach, but this will seem a small price to pay if you have checked to see what Boheme china birds are worth these days. If you decide that suicide is a bit too formal a way to pay for whatever destruction you have wrought, there is nothing wrong with paying for it in money. Alas, if you have had any real fun, full compensation will be way beyond your means. The easiest thing to do is to carry a big roll of cash around with you wherever you go. This should consist of a fifty dollar bill wrapped around about fifty one dollar bills. (anyone should be willing to pay a measly hundred dollars for a really spectacular melee in which he starred as the center of attention) Then- when you have upended your hostesses Hepplewhite chairs and piled them in the center of the room to reenact your Great Uncle's exploits at the siege of Ladysmith, and then torn down your hostesses drapes to do your impression of Armani's fall line, and used the remaining case of Beaujolais-Villages to prove to her how much better the Chinese rug would look in burgundy- then you can toss your roll of bills on the hall table and swiftly bid a fond adieu. You will be long gone by the time she has counted it, and later when she tells everyone that you didn't leave enough to cover the damages, they will think that she's trying to belittle your grand gesture.

The very last, endmost, most desperate means of getting away with misbehavior is by making an excuse. This is very risky and should be left to experts. All the world hates excuses. It starts with "The dog ate my homework" and progresses, dismally, from there. Also, an excuse only works when you have an audience that's very sympathetic to you in the first place, like your Mother. Sometimes you do something really bad- like being a Nazi, for instance- that demands some kind of excuse. Here is an exercise in excuse making which illustrates some of the difficulties. Pretend, if you can, that you are Adolph Eichmann and you are trying to excuse yourself to your Mother for having killed hundreds of thousands at Auschwitz. See if any of these excuses work:

*I was in a real rush and I just threw something together.

*Isn't that just like me? I could just kick myself!

*Ugh, I was under a lot of pressure at work.

No they don't. So. There you are.
Cheers.

Pomegranate Vodka Martini
A bottle of Jack and case of beer may be every man’s summertime staple, but we bet your girl is tired of drinking PBR out of that cooler that’s been in your yard since last year…
1.5 oz Three Olives® Pomegranate Vodka
1 oz POM® pomegranate juice
1.5 oz fresh Blackberry Puree
1 oz cranberry juice
Shake well with ice and strain into a chilled martini glass.

she's in parties (part one)

"...It was at the Sacré Coeur spring dance and garden party, at Missy Boudreaux's house- on St. Charles- We hadn't even been properly introduced , but she was sweet enough to follow me into the powder room and hold my hair while I puked into the bidet. It was my deb year so I of course was wearing white, and do you know, she was kind enough to pin her wrist corsage over the puke stain on my dress... That's the kind of friend she was... " -Bitsy Charbonnet (from Uptown)

I tend to attend parties, so of course, it is natural that I should want to sing their praises as well as pick them apart as do piranhas adore picking apart a careless cow stooping to drink from the Amazon river.
So, speaking of Piranhas, lets start with the most archaic of parties, one that is held outside, for some godless reason.
Garden parties are afternoon affairs that were extremely popular in the first half of the twentieth century -and still remain as popular among the elite of the south-eastern quarter of the United States- that were invented and encouraged by nationalistic European governments in order to make people so bored that they were willing to have a first and second World War- anything to get out of attending another garden party.
Garden parties consist of standing around in a garden -with perhaps the addition of drinking dismally low proof yet sticky sweet drinks in the heat of the day, as a reward for showing up in your crinolines and/or seersucker and/or linen finery.
That is all.
The only way to get a worthwhile amount of alcohol out of this is to sneak in your own flask or if you fail to have the opportunity to spike the punch yourself, actually dunk your entire head into the punch bowl. As a matter of fact the real cause of the first World War was a German ambassador doing just that at a Royal Garden Party at Buckingham Palace. (for public consumption, however, a story was circulated about Archduke Ferdinand's assassination.)
There are particular types of persons that are key to the success of these parties.
There is of course The Debbies, the young and fresh, shiny, happy people, (usually because of the contents of Mummy's medicine cabinet) that, at first blush, are shy, demure and dewy, or bronzed, stacked, blond and full of "All American Team Spirit", who are later to be found having sex in the parking lot or in the formal powder room snorting blow.
Then there's The Hot Walker and the Crypt Keeper, a hot, young and poor man who escorts a old and very rich widow to the party. Everyone is to assume that the two are having "pretend sex" that is, the young man actually does have sex with the older woman, yet we all pretend that it never happens. (Even the young man does this.) Next, there is The Beard.
The Beard is secretly a knob-gobbler that is out on a date with another person that is either secretly a tuna-twizzler or simply bored with her husband who is in the habit of making passes at the other bored female guests in the sweltering heat of the garden. The perfect union occurs when the two decide to marry, then they have a garden party of their own. These unions are for the most part successful, possibly because they play cards a lot. Pansies trump mother in laws tongue.
The Stalking Horse is the next perfect garden party date, they are the person that you go out with in order to make the person you really want to date insanely jealous. The only stipulation is that you actually have to sleep with the Stalking Horse or you won't make the person you really want insanely jealous. It is important that you excite this emotion well enough, hopefully to the point of either causing your jealous suitor to drive Daddy's Bentley into a wall -or bayou- or into his having twenty one roses delivered every other day with a note scrawled "Forgive me" for six months until you either tire of the color choices available in roses or you decide he has suffered enough- for now. This is the highest form of flattery.
There are always the additional ornaments, sparkling figures dressed to kill that you know spent $255.00 on their floral micro briefs (read: man panties for the really rich) from Tomas Maier, (I can get them for $68.00 on gilt.com, don't judge me...) that are welcome, yet somewhat rare, these are Hollywood types, celebrity chefs and/or lawyers and the ubiquitous Mob/Kennedy Family members that make one a trifle uneasy when they tell the hostess she has a "Sweet chassis".........

Mix and mingle...
Garden Party Bomb Pop
A versatile drink. Whether you're making it in a rocks glass, a cocktail glass, or a tall highball or Collins glass, all you need is equal amounts of each ingredient. Simple!
2 oz Bacardi® Razz rum
2 oz lemonade
2 oz Blue Curacao liqueur
Pour the Bacardi Razz rum into a small rocks glass or otherwise. Add blue curacao, and then lemonade, and serve.

"Jerk Chicken" ... wait, what?

On this trip to New Orleans, I have made quite the glutton of myself, (le oink) having had many extraordinary meals in beautifully appointed private homes and swanky five star restaurants, and last evening was no exception.
I was treated to a delightful meal across the rue from Chez Moose, at Palazzo Petrol, the home of Madame Peu de Joie Petrol And her adorable companion and bodyguard Chevalier Petrol. (Hi-Octane to his friends) We were a small group this particular evening, just the Petrols' and I, and her Parentals, "Dotty" with her husband La vie de Brian. (Once again I was lucky enough to find myself on the receiving end of Mme. Dotty's unyielding passion and heart-touching devotion to subjects not usually known to mere mortals, outside of The Vatican Library) Even though The Petrols' were in the middle of having their entire first floor of said palace renovated, Mme P. was able to prepare and present a fabulous meal, with her own tiny well manicured hands, fab picnic fare -a ton of food, with a sort of nouvelle jerk chicken and brazenly large sausages as prime players in this particular made for TV movie- AND all this without actually having a kitchen at the time, it's the damndest thing, how do people do it? -I will tell you all about the duck a l'orange made on the grill some other time. (And show you the scars.)

It seems like, over the years, I have spent the better part of my leisure time at the table. I am very lucky to not only have a very keen sense of smell and taste- blame it on the lycanthropy- I am also blessed to have a handful of close friends that are quite handy in the kitchen. (it is a well documented fact that some of the best meals I have had prepared and beautifully presented to my grateful snout have been made by Monsieur Moose) The fact that a number of our planets most incredible restaurants happen to be in my own home town of New Orleans does not come as a surprise, as an appreciation for all matter of things that pertain to the five senses seems to be in the blood of this cities citizens.
It is not unusual at the least for a meal to last at least six hours here, for it was not that long ago there were ten meals eaten throughout the day, breakfast, elevenses, lunch, luncheon, tiffin, high tea, tea, dinner, supper and a midnight snack, so naturally we tend to just stay at the table for as long as possible, call it a habit.
In other places where the cuisine is less than stellar, I think playing with food is the reason that dining in restaurants has become more popular. Playing with food is a psychologically powerful way of attracting attention to yourself, other than cleavage. Restaurants are better places to attract attention to yourself than at friends' homes are, anyway because you usually know in advance who is going to be at a friend's home, and one is always excited to perform to a fresh audience, no?
Practically anyone could be at a restaurant, and if you attract enough attention in a restaurant, maybe a rich and beautiful person will give you money or sex. Or cake, which is better.
Where as a food fight is considered rude -and downright dangerous if you run with a fast crowd- playing with food is easy, there are so many wonderful props at hand. Breathes there a man with a soul so dead that he us immune to the charms of blowing air through a straw, making tiny gin and tonic bubbles? And what of the theatrical possibilities of a plate full of fried calamari? Even bank presidents and pontiffs have been know to put the tentacles up to their noses and pretend that they are the monstrous Cthulhu and the garlic bread is the church of Rome.
But playing with food must be done correctly or it will lead to social disaster.
The secret to successful sport with foodstuffs is the correct attitude. The act itself needs to be fast, loud and enthusiastic. You must make your high spirit contagious before anyone has time for second thoughts, second thoughts usually consist of calling the police.
But if your timing and attitude is right, you can floor the crowd with a quick performance, like putting a lettuce leaf mane around the neck of your date, hold him or her at bay with your chair and command them to leap upon the table and rear up on their hind legs- everyone will think it's great fun.

Here are some other ideas to stoke the imagination:
*Use steamed mussels as castanets, slip sugar bowls over the toes of your shoes and perform, in a flamenco style, the seductive Seguidilla ("Près des remparts de Séville") from Carmen.
*If everyone is having beef, run around the table and try and put the cow back together while singing the "Cow-cow Boogie".
*Use any roast bird as a hand puppet, you can achieve startling realistic results by jamming you thumb and forefinger into the wing sockets- point out that the bird has lost it head and either use that as an excuse to have it run around the table pinching the guests noses, or supply the bird with a head using one of the other diners baked potato, then pretend that she is a young black girl in need of a fresh weave. (use vermicelli if available) If an encore is warranted there is always "The Chicken Dance"
*Pretend you are former president Bush (sr.) and illustrate the Persian gulf strategy on the napkin in someones lap. asparagus spears are capital ships; chunks of boeuf bourguignon are air to surface missiles, etc. (if there are any Vietnam vets in the crowd you can use the Sterno from under the chaffing dish to recreate the effects of napalm) Temper your battle plan by the age of the crowd.
*Hang a grilled trout on the wall like a trophy and make your fellow guest pose with it, or better yet stand on the table and re-enact landing it with an umbrella and a shoelace.
*Gather up veal scallops and have an impromptu game of cards- sauce Milanese is trump.
*Use a raw oyster to show a fellow diner what it would be like to French kiss a reptile. Or your 5th grade math teacher, ah, Brother Joseph, toujours plaisant... (caution: can get very "9 1/2 Weeks" very quickly)
*Porterhouse steaks make excellent Frisbees.
*Perform Baptisms or Exorcisms with the water from the finger bowl. You can also re-enact the manicure scene from "The Women". (do both the Olga and the Mary Haines parts for hilarious results)

The list is endless, let imagination rather than taste be your guide.
To your health.

Lethal Weapon
1 shot Bacardi® 151 rum
2 shots vodka
1 can La Casera (a traditional Spanish brand of soda)
dash triple sec
Combine all ingredients into a tall glass and serve with ice.

The Maid of Orleans

Vivre? Les serviteurs feront cala pour nous.
-Philipe Auguste Villers, De L'Isle-Adam

I often wonder, why it is that I cannot for the life of me keep the simplest of this worlds necessities, a Maid.
I suppose it is a bit daunting to be cleaning all alone in rooms filled with - um, interesting things, shall we say- The unusual "Cabinet of Curiosities", the glorious to some, disturbing to others sacred and profane furnishings of Mt. Varnum and certainly at Chez Moose.
The look has certainly progressed over the years from the opulent "Delusions of Grand Ma-ma" style and into a more "19th century bordello meets the private apartments at the Vatican with a soupcon of Addams Family" vibe.
I have had many a housekeeper run screaming into the bright of day just because, "Dios mio, the paintings eyes, they move!"- or their obnoxious wariness around the countless crucifixes and suffering carved saints, (rescued from monasteries around the world thank you very much) -that tired old and sometimes hysteric complaint about the lovely -and beautifully dentured mind you- collection of two thousand year old human skulls leering at them while they Swiffer the joint, or their reluctance to enjoy the true artisan-ship of the pieces we have amassed over the years, like the life-size 17th century severed head of John the Baptist that rests in a gilded tray on an end table, next to the reliquary collection. The Spanish ones.
I so envy Mazeppa, her girl, Cabeza Cacahuete, is a real gem, truly the Maid of (New) Orleans, she is encouraged to clean the place while wearing some of Mazeppas most precious, and may I say, historic, jewelry. The image of her running the Meila while wearing "Chucks" (she adorably calls them her "Tenis") on her feet and the Grand Arch Duchesses tiara on her head always makes me smile.
What happened?
Until recently a prosperous family employed a housekeeper to superintend the general domestic establishment: a butler to take charge of the dining room, the pantry and parlor floor; footmen to answer the door and assist in serving the table; a valet and ladies maid to attend the personal needs of the master and mistress of the house; parlor maids, kitchen maids, and chambermaids do the cleaning; a gardener to tend the grounds; a cook to prepare meals; a chauffeur to drive the cars; and perhaps a governess and a nurse if there are children.
Today all of these functions are combined to the single person of the cleaning lady who comes in at least once a week. What she does is called "A little dusting."
Among our modern, yet unwritten, rules are that before the cleaning lady arrives, it is necessary to vacuum and "straighten up" the entire house, because she works for other friends of yours and you certainly do not want her to tell them how you really live.
Be especially careful about hiding drug paraphernalia, sex toys or the stray trick/amoureux from the night before.
It is perfectly proper for you to ask your cleaning lady to iron, wash windows, polish silver, do the grocery shopping and clean up after your incontinent dog and/or Grandmother.
You can also ask her to jump through burning rings of fire with a cold leg of mutton in her mouth while lip-syncing to Edith-fucking-Piaf for all the good it will do you. She is going to "Dust a little" if that. (Usually the trick they use is to walk around and move the paintings slightly askew as to appear as if they were dusted, nay, waxed and buffed by the innocent and hardworking hands of a Christian Saint)
It is also quite proper for you to yell, at said cleaning lady, and allow your children and or your tricks/amoureux to do the same, threaten to report her to immigration - or DEA, and give her a lot of condescending advice about what to do with her hair, skin, drunkard husband, thug son or pregnant out of wedlock daughter, (who steals "Tenis" for her "because she works at Lady Foot Locker") for the cleaning lady is someone who not only cleans up after your lazy ass, she also violates your personal space, so it's not bad manners to treat her poorly. she will understand. (and she will reciprocate by not considering it bad manners to "dust heavily", breaking all of your Great-Grandmothers wedding china or steal from you to bring her salary up to approximately minimum wage.)

Cheers.
Mexican Mad Woman
2 oz 1800® Select Silver - 100 Proof Tequila
2 oz cranberry juice
1 oz orange juice
1 dash lime juice
Shake over ice or blend. Garnish with an orange slice.

King Urinal

A few barbs from the Bard to temper a sleepy Spring afternoon.....

You Banbury cheese.~Merry Wives of Windsor

What hempen homespun have we swaggering here?~A Midsummer Night's Dream
Vile worm, you were overlooked even in thy birth.~The Merry Wives of Windsor
Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born to signify thou came to bite the world.~Henry VI Part 3
I had rather be married to a deaths head with a bone in his mouth.~Merchant of Venice

You egg, you fry of treachery.~Macbeth

King Urinal.... ~Merry Wives of Windsor

He's a disease that must be cut away.~Coriolanus

An index and obscure prologue to the history of lust and foul thoughts.~Othello
If you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt.~The Two Gentlemen of Verona
A huge translation of hypocrisy, vilely compiled, profound simplicity.~Love's Labour Lost
You should be women and yet your beards forbid me to interpret that you are so.~Macbeth

Thou didst drink the stale of horses and the guilded puddle which beasts would cough at.~Antony and Cleopatra
Boils and plagues plaster you over, that you may be abhorred farther than seen and one infect another against the wind a mile. You souls of geese that bear the shapes of men.~Coriolanus
In their thick breaths, rank of gross diet, shall be enclouded, and forc'd to drink their vapour.~Antony and Cleopatra
Your beards deserve not so honourable a grave as to stuff a botcher's cushion or to be entombed in as ass's pack saddle.~Coriolanus
The terror of the French, the scarecrow that affrights our children so.~Henry VI Part 1
More of your conversation would infect my brain.~Coriolanus
She's the kitchen wench, and all grease ; and I know not what use to put her but to make a lamp of her and run her from her own light. I warrant, her rags and the tallow in them will burn a Poland winter. If she lives till doomsday, she'll burn a week longer than the whole world.~The Comedy of Errors
Her complexion is like Swart, like my shoe, but her face nothing like so clean kept, for why, she sweats, a man may go over shoes in the grime of it. ~The Comedy of Errors

His kisses are Judas's own children.~As You Like It
You lisp and wear strange suits.~As You Like It

He's a disease that must be cut away.~Coriolanus

Where will thou find a cavern dark enough to mask thy monstrous visage. Your purpled hands do reek and smoke. You showed your teeth like apes, and fawned like hounds and bowed like bondmen. I do find it cowardly and vile.~Julius Caesar
You are the must chaff, and you are smelt above the moon.~Coriolanus
The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes, when he walks he moves like an engine and the ground shrinks before his treading.~Coriolanus

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.~Macbeth
He hath out-villiain'd villainy so far that the rarity redeems him.~All's Well that Ends Well
And in his brain which is as dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage, he hath strange places.~As You Like It

Say wall eyed slave, whither wouldst thou convey this growing image of thy fiend like face.~Titus Andronicus

All that is within him does condemn itself for being there.~Macbeth
Thy bones are hollow, impiety has made a feast of thee.~Measure for Measure
False of heart, light of ear, bloody of hand, hog in sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey.~King Lear

He that depends upon your favours swims with fins of lead, and hews down oaks with rushes.~Coriolanus
Toads, beetles, bats, light on you.~The Tempest
A monster, a very monster in apparel.~The Taming of the Shrew
Where will thou find a cavern dark enough to mask thy monstrous visage.~Julius Caesa
Not shaped for sportive tricks, nor made to court an amorous looking glass.~Richard III
You have such a February face, so full of frost, of storm and cloudiness.~Much Ado About Nothing

Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.~King Lear
I do wish thou were a dog, that I might love thee somthing.~Timon of Athens

Cheers.

Lady Macbeth

1/2 oz vodka

1/2 oz Southern Comfort® peach liqueur

1/2 oz amaretto almond liqueur

1/2 oz triple sec

1/2 oz sloe gin

1/2 oz lime juice

orange juice

Pour all ingredients (except orange juice) into an ice-filled collins glass. Fill with orange juice, and serve.

behaviorism, lethe and a week of wonders

Three things:
1. I find the language of Skinner's Behaviorism to be excessively arid.

2. If you haven't seen Valerie a týden divu (Valerie and Her Week of Wonders), Jaromil Jireš' Czech New Wave masterpiece, then you should make a point to post haste.
Inspired by fairy-tales such as Alice in Wonderland and Little Red-Riding Hood, "Valerie and her Week of Wonders" is a surreal tale in which love, fear, sex and religion merge into one fantastic world. (an essential Eastern European hallucinogenic-baroque-witch-flick)

The soundtrack, recorded by Luboš Fišer in 1970, is a gorgeous confection of bombastic fairy tale Gothic folk tunes: bells (from glockenspiel to church bells) and whips and music boxes all clustered in claustrophobic collage. I haven't heard anything else quite like it, and listening to the tracks closely (as opposed to enjoying the pleasant bizarrerie of the music alongside the film) I appreciate Fišer's deliberation in crafting something that is at once so ensorcelling and terrifying and playful. And while I often find this kind of music too disjointed or distracting to enjoy as casual listening, I've found myself letting Valerie loop a few times with no ill effect, except for, perhaps, the occasional sensation of Victorian goblins fumbling around in the rafters. Which isn't an awful thing per se.

3. Now this, for a friend...

Oblivion! is it not one name of death?

Nay, is not Lethe death's most dismal name,

Death growing hour by hour within our frame,

Death settling slowly in our brain, the breath

Of the soul ebbing, so that he who saith,

I am to-day as yesterday the same,

Lies, for his thoughts are fled like smoke from flame,

And like the dew his sorrow vanisheth.

Changed is the river, though the waves remain,

Which rocks of slowlier-changing circumstance

Plough up in every day of chafing foam.

Changed is the river, gone, gone to the main,

Yesterday's dream and last year's happy chance,

And the heart's thoughts again return not home. -John Barlas

Cheers.

Forget-me-not

1 oz absinthe

1 oz apple schnapps

3/4 oz raspberry (framboise) brandy

1/4 oz Kirschwasser cherry brandy

Pour into an old-fashioned glass filled with broken ice. Garnish with a twist of lime, and serve with a maudlin sigh.

Le Plus Loin Le Plus Serre

It is the last weekend of the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, aka Jazz Fest, and It seems the crowds are bigger than ever. I have left the lot of those jazz-mad puppets of fate, (those women with their sleeveless shifts and their shiftless men in cargo shorts) to their own devices and turned my attentions to more intimate gatherings with my small yet larger than life group of familiar faces- the friends I call family.

I was discussing families, extended or otherwise, with Mr. Moose and it occurred to me that as it is indeed fortunate to be born into a family that is both nurturing and well placed, it seems for many people, it is not necessarily conducive to a successful and fulfilling life just as being from what one used to call a broken home is not in anyway a omen of doom for any child that is by chance it's progeny. It is a good thing, for if our behavior were really determined by our ancestors, we'd all act like amoebas. We would eat by osmosis and reproduce by division, meaning we would smear food all over our bodies and have sex by throwing ourselves under a train. (very David Cronenberg non?)

Well, But really then, which family is really better to be from? That is given the choice...of course.

To become a mannerly and courteous person you want only a few things from your real family: breeding, dignity and piles of money. That is all anyone ever wanted from a family. Yes your family might love you and cherish the quicksand you walk on, but that has very little to do with "True Love." At best family love is messy, clinging, and of an annoying and bad repetitive pattern, like trance music or Finnish wallpaper.

Are rich families any better? Not necessarily and especially not in America. The dignity evaporates when you discover that they made their fortune in dog laxatives. As for breeding, most rich people are far too busy getting divorced, drinking, and well, breeding to show their sons how to tie a Windsor knot or to tell their daughter not to marry a man with that knot in his tie. Rich children are shipped to boarding schools, often before they are weaned. It would be unfair to say that the atmosphere in these schools are bestial, for a child who was kept in the Bronx zoo would acquire more courtesy and taste. Occasionally boarding schools turns out someone along the lines of the preppy skull-n-bones stereotype, but in real life their graduates are more likely to wind up playing the electronic Xylophone, and singing 50's toothpaste jingles while rubbing raw meat all over themselves as a part of a performance art ensemble.

And, when it comes to money, wealth does not guarantee it. Rich parents are famous for both miserliness and astonishing longevity. And when they do die, you will find that they have left their in inviolate trust to the golden retriever or the sad little brown children they plucked from some orphanage in a third world nation late in life -usually after the gardener is deported or the chauffeur marries someone his own age.

Poor families are much better to be from. Of course the poor family won't give you much breeding, but it will give you preparation for life. It is far more instructive to have a drunk parent right there in the tenement with you that it is to have a drunk parent off in Gstaad. Poor people also tend to scream at each other, never have any real pocket money, and are prone to some really creative violence. This is excellent preparation for becoming, say, president of a large corporation- what with the acrimonious board meetings, constant cash flow problems and corporate products and byproducts that maim and kill people. In fact, I think being poor is generally much better for getting rich that being rich is. Poor people have a lot of time on their hands and spend it thinking up inexpensive and easily marketed fads like crack.

There is also some dignity in being poor. A poor person who has made out even slightly good is more admired than a rich person that has only done slightly bad. We are, after all, a nation of immigrants, laborers, and what is known as the common man. In our modern popular mythology, the lower classes are decent hard working and possessed of simple piety and common sense- as long as they stay downwind. You proletarian dignity, however will do you no good if your kin are one of those that appear on reality television programs wishing to find what is commonly called in certain circles, their "Baby Daddy."

And then there is the rest of them, the Middle Class, that sliding scale of division that we all share knowledge of, or stuck in, with embarrassment. There is Dad, tiresome Tom with his mailman shoes and job selling wholesale something or another with a receding hairline and declining interests. Mom, out-of-it Olivia with her astronauts wife hair-do, MBA and pseudo-Tuscan designed flat in Yawnsville USA.

They might be your loving and devoted parents but the only possible thing to do is either distance yourself from them by telling everyone that they were eaten by pygmies on your tenth birthday while on safari in Ubangystan, or kill them yourself. You will probably get out of the mental hospital in five or six years and then sure as the sun will come up tomorrow there will be a big fat book deal waiting for you when you do. Tell your ghostwriter "I did it because of the little ceramic burro planters with ivy growing out of the little side baskets..." Every sensitive person will understand.

So, cheers.

Raw Diamond
1 oz 1800® Select Silver - 100 Proof Tequila
1/4 oz pear puree
1/4 oz fresh lime juice
1/4 oz agave juice
Combine ingredients and shake with ice Pour into a lightly salted highball glass

beltane

Also known as May Eve, May Day, and Walpurgis Night, Beltane happens at the beginning of May. It celebrates the height of Spring and the flowering of life. The Goddess manifests as the May Queen and Flora. The God emerges as the May King and Jack in the Green.

The danced Maypole represents Their unity, with the pole itself being the God and the ribbons that encompass it, the Goddess. Colors are the Rainbow spectrum. Beltane is a festival of flowers, fertility, sensuality, and delight.

In Pagan Rome, Floralia, from April 27-May 3 was the festival of the Flower Goddess Flora and the flowering of Springtime. On May 1, offerings were made to Bona Dea (as Mother Earth), the Lares (household guardian spirits), and Maia (Goddess of Increase) from whom May gets its name.

Wiccans and Wiccan-inspired Neopagans celebrate a variation of Beltane as a sabbat, one of the eight solar holidays. Although the holiday may use features of the Gaelic Bealtaine, such as the bonfire, it bears more relation to the Germanic May Day festival, both in its significance (focusing on fertility) and its rituals (such as maypole dancing). Some Wiccans celebrate 'High Beltaine' by enacting a ritual union of the May Queen (May Bride) as personification of the Earth Goddess and Goddesses of Fertility, and the May King (May Groom) as personification of Vegetation God, Jack-in-Green -- often covered in green leaves.
Among the Wiccan sabbats, Beltane is a cross-quarter day; it is celebrated in the northern hemisphere on May 1 and in the southern hemisphere on November 1. Beltane follows Ostara and precedes Midsummer.

Celtic Reconstructionists usually celebrate Lá Bealtaine when the local hawthorn trees are in bloom, or on the full moon that falls closest to this event. Many observe the traditional bonfire rites, to whatever extent this is feasible where they live, including the dousing of the household hearth flame and relighting of it from the community festival fire. Some decorate May Bushes and prepare traditional festival foods. Pilgrimages to holy wells are traditional at this time, and offerings and prayers to the spirits or deities of the wells are usually part of this practice. Crafts such as the making of equal-armed rowan crosses are common, and often part of rituals performed for the blessing and protection of the household and land.

If you just happen to be in Edinburgh on or around the end of April, you owe it to yourself to check out the Beltaine festival they have every year.

Edinburgh’s Beltane festival traditionally takes place on the 30th of April every year on Calton Hill. (The festival originates in the Scottish and Irish Gaelic pre-Christian festival of the same name)
The name itself is thought to have derived from a Gaelic-Celtic word meaning ‘bright/sacred fire’. It was held to mark and celebrate the blossoming of spring, and coincided with the ancient pastoral event of moving livestock to their summer grazing. It did not occur on any fixed solar date (the tradition of solstices and equinoxes is later in origin) but tended to be held on the first full moon after the modern 1st of May. Some sources suggest that the blooming of the Hawthorn was the primary signal for the event before the development of centralised calendars.
It was a celebration of the fertility of the land and their animals. The main traditional element which was common to all Beltane festivals was the fire which gave it its name. All the fires of the community would be extinguished and a new, sacred ‘Need Fire’ was lit by either the village head or spiritual leader. From this source one or two bonfires were lit, and the animals of the community would be driven through or between them. It was believed that the smoke and flame of the fires would purify the herd, protecting them in the year to come and ensuring a good number of offspring. The inhabitants of the village would then take pieces of the fire to their homes and relight their hearths, and dance clockwise around the bonfires to ensure good portents for them and their families.

If you plan on attending, and if you find yourself with strangers, (and really, who but the very chic would find themselves almost naked on a cold, wet, wind-battered hill in Scotland at that time of year) or people you don't know very well and you want to break the ice, simply ask them if they would like to have sex. (on the ground, of course to bless the fields and ensure good crops and all that jazz) This is considered flattering, concerns them personally and will lead to interesting gossip at worst and possibly an invitation to summer in a picturesque Scottish ancestral home- (preferably a castle with hot and cold running water as well as Internet connections) always a nice getaway from that particularly unwholesome curry scented stickiness one finds themselves surrounded by in London during the summer. One can readily recall "The Great Stink" in the summer of 1858 during which the smell of untreated sewage almost overwhelmed people in central London, England... have you ever seen a horse vomit? It's not as hilarious as it sounds...

Cheers....

Jack in Green

3 oz vodka

3 oz White rum

1 oz Blue Curacao liqueur

1 oz dry vermouth

1 oz lime juice

orange juice

Mix all ingredients in this EXACT ORDER. In a shaker filled with cubed ice mix the vodka, white rum, blue curacao, dry vermouth, and the lime juice. Shake until ice cold. Pour into highball glass and add the orange juice until full, or to your liking. If you did it right it should look very green and "Nickelodeon-slime-like." Drink and enjoy. Not too fast, though. This WILL cause you to roll around in the dirt with or without another person much to the dismay of onlookers at the dog park.

oink

First the bad news- We feel the term "Swine Flu" has an unfortunate ring to it.

The good news is we have come up with a much more poetic term, or terms as it were, for the pandemic- "Aporkalypse" "Epigdemic," "Hogsteria," "Armhogeddon," "Cochonrantine" and "Pigpendemic" are nice but I think "Swine-11" is the best so far... "World boar III" sounds a bit like an aristocratic English title. Peerage, hrumph.

I do however forsee the demise of "Pig-tails" as being an acceptable hair style as well as a decline in the number of Wendy's Bacon Cheeseburgers sold.

Also good news is the fact that I have successfully completed a new years resolution of mine:

Words I Vowed To Use More Often In 2009 And Have Thus Far Done So Within The First 100 Days

areola, Bananarama bandolier bukkake cajole castrato chassis chuff churlish churro cockles cocksure codswallop coquettish cowpoke crantastic or crunchtastic cryptkeeper decoupage derriére doppelganger doubloon elfin flagellate fluegelhorn fortnight gelatinous gordito gunt haberdasher hirsute hunchback intergalactic jackanapes Jewess kismet ladyboy merman mustachioed muttonhead oligarchy ombudsman ornery pansexual pantaloon pantied papacy perineum phrenologist plié plucky plumage pubis pugilist purloin rapier Sasquatchian scalawag schadenfreude scrimshaw scrod scrota scurvy shantytown shewolf skullduggery soothsayer sousaphone Stallonesque succubus swashbuckle taquito teetotaler titular unitard vagician vampirical whoremonger

Aren't those nice? Hmmm? I am sure you have made good on your new years resolutions, yes? No? Oh... well who cares? lets have a drink...

Swine Flew

3 oz gin

3 oz Midori® melon liqueur
3 oz Smirnoff® Vanilla Twist vodka

6 oz Dr. Pepper soda

Mix and drink, after six or seven of these, its guaranteed you will experience flu like symptoms the following morning and / or afternoon.

redeemer two

all my frankensteins

Enjoying the fine sunny weather while back in our beloved Chez Moose, it was decided that it would be great fun to rifle through the attic, to play treasure hunt and perhaps make some room for other furniture, paintings and tchotchkes that might soon be exiled for a few years, or decades, as it were.
While going through boxes, tucked in an old copy of FMR magazine and underneath an ancient bottle of Pepto Bismol, (Often, I have much more fun at Rite Aid than in a club. Maybe I'm just getting older and pharmacy is becoming the only place of relief) I found a note, a poem by Blake I had copied down, (with some lyrics to a Marily Manson song written in the margins.) I have often thought the two of them would make the most stimulating dinner partners.
About the note- funny that, the pages still had the faint scent of Guerlain's Jicky perfume on them after all this time. (I would absolutely bathe in it back then- did you know it is a favorite of Sir Sean Connery? yes he wears it, big secret though, shhh.) as I opened the Pepto, checking it as if it were an ancient wine jug from an Egyptian tomb, I gazed at the written page, it is a pretty good tale, or at least part of one, it is not to be tossed aside lightly, if anything it should be thrown with great force as it is rife with latent goth angst. The Pepto however was delegated to the bin, but I made a mental note to go shopping for more later. Pepto Bismol, hmmm... magic Pepto... it may be very common for Americans , but it could be something amazing for a stranger. It is so rare to have fun while sick (usually sick and happy goes straight to Bellevue) .... but look at that combination of yellow/pink! It tastes like a melted Barbie, the pill looks like a smart drug very popular in the 90's and the new cherry flavour adds some red to the ensemble. Why can't other meds we buy be as conceptual as that?
Oh well, here's the poem, written down and stashed away for some long forgotten reason...

To The Accuser Who is The God of This World
Truly My Satan thou art but a Dunce

And dost not know the Garment from the Man

Every Harlot was a Virgin once

Nor canst thou ever change Kate into Nan

Tho thou art Worship'd by the Names Divine

Of Jesus & Jehovah thou art still

The Son of Morn in weary Nights decline

The lost Travellers Dream under the Hill

(And this, was written in the margins:)

The sky was blonde like her
It was a day to take the child
Out back and shoot it.
I could have buried all my dead
Up in her cemetery head
She had dirty word witchcraft
I was in the deep end of her skin.
Then, it seemed like a one car wreck
But I knew it was a horrid tragedy.
Ways to make the tiny satisfaction disappear. Blow out the candles
On all my frankensteins.
At least my death wish will come true.
You taste like Valentine's and
We cry,
You're like a birthday.
I should have picked the photograph
It lasted longer than you. Putting holes in happiness.
We'll paint the future black
If it needs any color.
My death sentence is a story
Who'll be digging when you finally let me die?
The romance of our assassination
If you're Bonnie, I'll be your Clyde.
But the grass is greener here and
I can see all of your snakes.
You wear your ruins well
Please run away with me to hell.

Hmmm. Well, at least it seems my penchant for dramatics, written or otherwise, has remained intact over the years, non?

Cheers!
Morbid Angel

2 oz Cutty Black Scotch whisky
2 oz Southern Comfort peach liqueur
2 oz Absinthe herbal liqueur Stir equal parts of each ingredient together in a mixing glass. Strain into a glass, and serve.
I present a video for your entertainment:


Ataraxia (Ἀταραξία) is a Greek term used by Pyrrho and Epicurus for a limpid state, characterized by freedom from worry or any other preoccupation.
For the Epicureans, ataraxia was synonymous with the only true happiness possible for a person. It signifies the detached and balanced state of mind that shows that a person has transcended the material world and is now harvesting all the comforts of philosophy.
For the Pyrrhonians, owing to one's inability to say which sense impressions are true and which ones are false, it is quietude that arises from suspending judgment on dogmatic beliefs or anything non-evident and continuing to inquire. The experience was said to have fallen on the painter Apelles who was trying to paint the foam of a horse (likely a bit of frothy saliva near its mouth). He was so unsuccessful that in a rage he gave up and threw the sponge he was cleaning his brushes with at the medium, thus producing the effect of the horse's foam. The Stoics, too, sought mental tranquility, and saw ataraxia as something to be desired and often made use of the term, but for them the analogous state, attained by the Stoic sage, was apatheia or absence of passion...

lapin drôle

I was out in the potting shed this afternoon, in the above outfit, my lapin suicidaire ensemble, checking to see that all was in readiness for the spring planting, and found a pile of old magazines. I totally get into this kind of thing.
This is the kind of diversion I can never resist.
I sat down and had a flip-through. In one of these periodicals--and this was ironic, considering the venue--I found an article about Beatrix Potter. It was written by a British psychiatrist, and in it he attests that Squirrel Nutkin--the eponymous protagonist in one of her tiny, perfect children's nature tales--suffers from Tourette's syndrome. He observed that while Twinkleberry and the other bushy-tailed rodents are hard-working and assiduous, Nutkin is given to disruptive behavious and inappropriate expostulations. "Hum-a-bum! buzz! buzz! Hum-a-bum buzz!" he will exclaim, while dancing up and down "like a sunbeam." He also engages in obsessive, repetitive activities and makes odd whirring noises.
Casebook Tourette's, n'est-ce pas?
Most readers of such a news item, particularly if they are fond of Beatrix Potter, will roll their eyes heavenward and dismiss these shrink-wrapped insights as yet another instance of the evils of the publish-or-perish imperative. However, I have gone back and examined Potter's oeuvre, mostly published between the turn of the century and the First World War, and I can report that she was astonishingly insightful and anticipatory of many of the psychosocial issues and controversies that now tumble about in the lines of some of her artful fables.
Consider The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle. Superficially, this is the quaint story of the meeting between a stout washerwoman and a girl called Lucie, who is searching for her mislaid handkerchiefs and pinafore. But scratch the surface of this simple tale, and you will find the far-seeing Potter's warning against the terrible dangers of drug abuse. Carefully deconstructing her text, we see that Potter intended Lucie--whose name, after all, means light--as the embodiment of innocence in peril. Directly she enters Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle's dark hillside workroom, where the laundress is ostensibly ironing, Lucie notices "a hot singey smell," an odour familiar to anyone who has ever stumbled into a crack den while looking for change for the gum machine. Furthermore, we are told that Mrs. Tiggy-winkle's "little black nose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle, and her eyes went twinkle, twinkle." Those who have witnessed the effect of cocaine use will recognize these indicators as certain signs that everything is not on the up-and-up with the genial Mrs. T! Any doubt about Potter's deeper motivations is cast off in the closing pages of the book, when Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle strips off her clothes and is proven to be a hedgehog, covered in needles. Potter's bright warning shines through the anthropomorphic conventions of children's literature, leaving us only with the hope that the vile Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle thought to use her laundry bleach to sterilize her syringes before reusing or sharing them.
There's much more to be divined from the Potter canon, once you know where and how to look. For instance, in Mr. Jeremy Fisher, Potter is full of astonishingly prescient advice about what we now call safe sex. Mr. Jeremy Fisher, a bachelor frog, goes down to the pond for an afternoon of trolling. He sensibly wears his macintosh and galoshes. A trout seizes him but finds the taste of protective coating so off-putting that he spits out the well-wrapped frog. In other words, Mr. Jeremy Fisher was saved by wearing rubbers.
In The Tale of Peter Rabbit, Potter foretells the rudiments of sociobiology and anticipates the very recently published research which posits that compulsive novelty seekers owe their behaviour in large measure to a surfeit of a chemical dis-inhibitor called dopamine, which they are, in effect, programmed to produce.
Peter's siblings, Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail, who are "good little bunnies," heed their mother's warning not to go in Mr. McGregor's garden. Peter, however, cannot help himself. Evidently, he inherited his restlessness from his father, who perished during just such a raid and was baked in a pie. Despite this, Peter tempts fate by encroaching on the farmer's turf. Ever the moralist, Potter makes no attempt to excuse the delinquent rabbit's conduct. She is clear that although our behaviour may owe something to our genetic mix, we must still be held accountable for our actions. Hence, Peter's famous humiliation: he is sent to bed with a dose of chamomile tea.
Finally, The Tale of Jemima Puddle Duck is a highly charged tract about the need for family planning. You will recall how Jemima Puddle Duck is not allowed to hatch her own eggs. Rather, they are given to a hen who is a more reliable brooder. Distraught, Jemima devises a plan to nest on her eggs away from the barnyard and very nearly runs afoul of a fox.
Thanks to the intervention of Kep the collie, who represents wisdom, she is saved from the whiskered villain, who symbolizes untrammelled fertility.

In the end, Jemima manages to become the happy mother of four wee ones, which should be enough for any one duck.
Beatrix Potter lived a long and fruitful life but is only now gaining the recognition she deserves as an activist, prophet, social critic and tactician.
As Pigling Bland, Miss Moppet, Tom Kitten, the Tailor of Gloucester and all the others begin to surrender their secrets, we can expect to see Beatrix Potter in all her glory, revealed to us as what she is, was and always will be: a writer for now, for then and for the new millenia to come.

now a toast...
Dracula's Bunny
2 oz Absolut peppar vodka
1 oz Blue Curacao liqueur
1 oz DeKuyper Peachtree schnapps
2 oz sweet and sour mix
1/2 oz pear cider
1/2 oz 7-Up® soda
1/2 oz lemon juice
Pour all ingredients into a highball glass 3/4 filled with ice cubes. Stir well, and serve.

Amphigory, Aldo and Super Chicken

With Easter coming up, I often think about the strange and wonderful Easter customs in my family.
I love the Easter holidays in general but I never enjoyed Easter Monday. All the preparations that precede that day were fun - decorating our home, painting eggs, baking the special Easter bun or the Easter lamb... but then came Easter Monday to ruin it all. I always tried to hide but somehow they always found me. Where my Dads family were from, the boys not only run around to whip you and get an egg or if they are older a shot of home-made brandy - as they do in Bohemia - they come and throw you in a stream, or put your head under a water pipe to be sure to give you a good shower... and NOT just once. It's only when you're in a town that you're lucky there's no stream around and the worst they can do is give you a shower or a swirly in the toilet in your own bathroom. But as if that weren't enough, they spray you with perfume, too, if it were something-anything- from Guerlain, I would not mind a bit, but it was usually Avon's vile elixir (that I am sure caused as many birth defects as Thalidomide) called "Roses, Roses, Roses" that was the weapon of choice. Even though I was/am a boy, I always was the target of the males in my family as there was not a "Girl" - pardon the expression- to be had in the immediate family, save my Mom or my mammy Aida.
Other customs included my getting the first slice of the Simnel Cake since I was the youngest, (The Simnel cake is a rich fruitcake covered with a thick layer of almond paste (marzipan). A layer of marzipan is also traditionally baked into the middle of the cake) not to mention the odd presents I received over the years- usually from my Grandmother "Miz Hyacinth".
On every Easter I would get a basket with the usual fare, the chocolate eggs and bunnies (that I would immediately bite the ears off of, then wander around the house holding it's slowly melting body in my hot little hands saying, "What? What? I can't hear you!") but Mis Hyacinth would always add a few touches of the macabre to this basket-o-sugar.
On more than a few Easter mornings over the years I received the ubiquitous "Lucky Rabbits Foot" key chains, (Not so lucky for the rabbit) a hand mirror with a portrait of Mussolini painted on the back, a Netsuke carving of two Asian people mid coitus, invitations to join the "Daughters of the American Revolution" and "The Sons of Italy", a potted plant (dieffenbachia), a bad imitation Faberge egg and on seven consecutive years, I was gifted with the following Edward Gorey classics-
Age six:
The Bug Book
The Fatal Lozenge: An Alphabet
The Curious Sofa: A Pornographic Tale by Ogdred Weary
The Hapless Child
The Willowdale Handcar: Or, the Return of the Black Doll
Age seven:
The Beastly Baby
The Vinegar Works: Three Volumes of Moral Instruction
The Gashlycrumb Tinies
The Insect God
The West Wing
Age Eight:
The Wuggly Ump
The Nursery Frieze
The Sinking Spell
The Remembered Visit: A Story Taken From Life
Age nine:
The Evil Garden
The Inanimate Tragedy
The Pious Infant
Age ten:
The Gilded Bat, Cape
The Utter Zoo
The Other Statue
The Blue Aspic
The Epiplectic Bicycle
Age eleven:
The Iron Tonic: Or, A Winter Afternoon in Lonely Valley
The Chinese Obelisks: Fourth Alphabet
Donald Has A Difficulty
The Osbick Bird
The Sopping Thursday
Age twelve:
The Deranged Cousins
The Eleventh Episode
The Untitled Book
The Awdrey-Gore Legacy
Leaves From A Mislaid Album
The Abandoned Sock
A Limerick
The Lost Lions
After these, I received The Glorious Nosebleed: Fifth Alphabet when I was 14, and The Fraught Settee when I was 28, strange that, huh? I really must complete my library one day...
I totally learned at an early age to appreciate Gorey's way of thinking.
In his own words- "Ideally, if anything [was] any good, it would be indescribable."
Gorey classified his own work as literary nonsense, the genre made most famous by Lewis Carroll and Edward Lear. Gorey seemed to love the precision involved in this genre, and, in response to the accusation of being Gothic, he stated, "If you're doing nonsense it has to be rather awful, because there'd be no point. I'm trying to think if there's sunny nonsense. Sunny, funny nonsense for children—oh, how boring, boring, boring. As Schubert said, there is no happy music. And that's true, there really isn't. And there's probably no happy nonsense, either."
I concur.
Another strange custom was a song my mammy used to sing to me. Its called "Aldo The Easter Bunny", I am not sure if this was a real song or something she made up... All I know is Aldo is a kind of Italian name for the Easter Bunny...

Al-do The Ea-ster Bun-ny, running on his springy rubber legs,
Aldo The Easter Bunny, bringing kids their Easter Eggs.
One Easter he was running, They say he slipped and fell.
But He didn't break a single egg or even crack a shell.
Then- Hop, hop, hop, Jump, jump, jump, poor Aldo couldn't run!
Hop, hop, hop Jump, jump, jump, around to every-one.
When the children woke that Easter morn, their Easter eggs were there,
But no one knew poor Aldo was a little crippled hare.
Aldo the easter Bunny, had to hop the whole day through,
He couldn't run from hunters like other bunnies do,
Aldo the easter Bunny would hide in bright day light,
He'd gather all his easter eggs and color them at night,
Then Ding, ding, ding, dong, dong, dong, went the Easter bell,
Then- Run, run, run, rush, rush, rush, Aldos knee was well,
When the children woke that Easter morn, their Easter eggs were there,
And Aldo the Easter Bunny, is a happy little hare!

(and they wonder why I drink)
Cheers!

The Crippled Deaf Chocolate Bunny
2 oz dark creme de cacao
2 oz vodka
2 tsp chocolate syrup
2 tsp cherry brandy
Shake creme de cacao and vodka with ice. Strain over ice in an old-fashioned glass. Float chocolate syrup and cherry brandy. Supersauce...

pie a la démodé

Some of the things I have learned this week: There is no crying in Modeling, Baseball, Porn or Tap dancing- A very close friend thinks a 401k is a very long marathon- Like Eleanor Roosevelt, I had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. (But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalog: - 'No good in a bed, but fine against a wall') - If I wear vanilla scented lotion, I smell like a rice crispy treat- Karl Lagerfeld Entourage Update: Brad Koenig is out. Model Baptiste Giabiconi is in- Even if I buy Prada (the good stuff from Milan, AKA The European epicenter of the fashion universe) I look like I have shopped in a thrift store.

I do admit, I go to thrift stores a lot, (something I'm afraid you may find demode) -it's something my Mother is not very happy with- "All those other people's germs! How can you stand it?"- I've never really been a germophobe about it. Perhaps I'll incorporate a germ mask into tomorrow morning's outfit though, something with a Darth Vader vibe, perhaps?

Now, speaking of fashion, here is a little story told to me by ZaZa, my personal shopper at Sak's...

The continuing story of Karl Bear; a children's story:
Once upon a time there was a bear in a far off land called "The Garment District" named Karl bear.

The time was right now, this instant, because Karl bear did not like the past, as he told journalists in his 18th century mansion. He only liked the "now", so the "time" in in the "once upon a time" is "now". Right now. Even thought this is written in past tense, it is still "now". As you read this book. The "now", hmm?

Karl bear hopes your hands have leather, fingerless gloves on them (Karl bear does not have any because bears have no fingers).

So anyway, one day Karl bear was out for a walk where he was mobbed by some démodé paparazzi. He said to them: You a very boring, go away." Karl does not like boring things. The paparazzi said, in unison because paparazzi are just grown-up choir boys: "Please sir, can we have a picture?"

"Oh fine, just one, hmm?" Karl bear said sternly, as he dreamt up a Chanel nose picker for the hairs in the noses of very démodé people.

Karl bear didn't really know why he was doing this, because a bear is not a person; although some person from PETA is very likely to say "bears are people too!", and with this he inhaled the irony of the previous few sentences most satisfyingly.

He continued his walk until he met Anna bear, who said: "Karl darhling, some more cognac."

"You are drunk, mm?" said Karl bear."I'm just going to pick out the new cover for Vogue. We're do- doinggg, DOOinggggg, oooo, dooooinnnggggg."

"This is very boring, Anna. I know you're not really drunk and just pretending to in order to appear more human (as opposed to the near-anamorphic entity that you are)." Karl said.

Anna looked a little sad, and decided to fire someone as this always warmed her ice-cold heart.

"ANDRE YOU FRICKIN MORON YOU SAID 100% ALCOHOL WOULD GET ME DRUNK" Anna bear exclaimed, as Andre bear, a rather portly bear who looked like a certain blind soul singer when he had dark glasses on, came waddling out. And then Anna glared at poor Andre bear as his stuffing was burnt.
"Oh, he is not poor, hmm?" Karl bear said somehow reading the book because he's that clever- "Andre is very démodé and boring" Then Karl went off to a dinner that was being held by his friend Alber bear, a stylish but slightly plump bear."This is very boring." said Karl bear. "I do not eat".

So Karl bear decided to design another Chanel collection and teach his daughter, Jane bear, how to say "démodé" right. He felt an uncommon sense of pride when she got it right and was rather worried. It was scary- all these "emotions".

Then Yves bear came in through the door, back from the dead and looking adorably mopey in that way that attracted a thousand women to his clothes. "Hello Karl."

"Hello Yves. You are dead, no?"

"Yes, I am sad."

"Ok."

"This story needs a moral, I think, hmmm?" said Karl bear.

"Hmmm" said everyone.
"Okay. How about don't wear traffic cones of your head when driving, or while eating pie, hmm?"

"Very chic" said Alber.

"I am now bored." said Karl bear.

Fin.

Cheers!
The Sundance Lift

(To be served at every Sundance event)

1 oz Le Tourment Vert

1 oz tonic water

1 oz 7-Up® soda

2 lemon wedges

Build all ingredients in a tall glass filled with ice. Squeeze the 2 lemon wedges. Garnish with a lemon. (May be served with pie)

странная версия знакомого рассказа

of Chordates, Libertines and Growing Noses

Half heartedly watching the Japanese film "Tonari no Totoro" while being somewhat distracted by the swarthy carpet cleaner as he rapped along to DMX in Farsi with his headphones on, I sat in the "Geppetto's workshop" themed rumpus room at Mt. Varnum this morning flipping through photos of a recent trip abroad. Finding a particular pic of the curious inscription found above the entrance of St. Madeleine's church, at Rennes-le-Chateau, France that reads: 'Terribilis Est Locus Iste' (roughly translated by many as "Dreadful is this Place"- inside there is an even more intriguing sculpture of the Devil holding up a holy water font)
I realized that not only is the very same inscription is written above the door to the kitchen of my dear friend Mazeppa, but it also occurs to me that I had not spoken to Mazeppa in a few weeks, I also can't remember whether or not we are "speaking".

My contemplation was briefly interrupted when Mahmoud, the carpet guy, looked up and removed his earphones saying, "Wait a minute, didn't I see you on TV as a counter protester at Paul Harvey's funeral?" (The depraved, hate besotted fools from the Westboro Baptist Church - the kooks who show up at the funerals of fallen soldiers with their "God Hates Fags!" signs -picketed Saturday afternoon's funeral of radio legend Paul Harvey so a bunch of us showed up to protest them)
"I remember you had the sign that read 'CTHULHU HATES CHORDATES' right?" As an answer I lowered my eyes and blushed while a brief smile flashed across my face, my thoughts then returned to the matter at hand, Mazeppa.
As you know I am devoted to the old girl, but several weeks back we were close to having a terrible row about a recent lapse in her judgement. I am afraid I might have thrown what they call a "Hissy" ... I would be remiss if I didn't admit that I was totally negligent when the following happened.

When not being chauffeured around in the Duesenberg, Mazeppa drives an E-240 Mercedes-Benz, a few weeks ago she took it in for a service.

A few days later she noticed something odd. The 'E-240' badge above the right brake light looked different. Specifically, it now read 'E-420'.

Wha?! Exactly. The 420 is a more expensive model than the less powerful 240. My sometimes status-conscious friend was naturally thrilled with the change."I much prefer the new number," she told me with a wide lipsticked grin. "Bu...Hav...Ma...Is it even your car?!!"

"Yes. Well, I mean, I think so."

"Did you tell them about it? Have you told anyone about this?"
"No. I don't want them to change it back. Don't mention it to anyone... anyway the man, the Service Manager or whatever, is a rake-hell, a roue and a libertine!" she yelped.

"And a libertine?' how did we come to that conclusion, may I ask?"

"Well, did you see what he was wearing to start with... he didn't offer me a drink while I was waiting, not even a teensy glass of champagne AND he called me by my first name!" she hissed. "Dear, that is his uniform..." I explained. "Oh, yes, well, very sneaky of him to wear a uniform... how am I supposed to know that?"

Sneaky indeed said the pot to the kettle. The car looks looks a lot like her car (apart from the obvious deviation). It even has coins in the little coin...thing.

"They probably just switched round the two numbers for shits and giggles," suggested Monsieur Moose who was returning from the kitchen with some refreshing adult beverages.

"Unlikely, those numbers are welded on pretty tight. And anyway, why would they do that? " I asked.

In the absence of her willing to actually address the issue lest the (fortunate?) error be corrected, Goddess forbid, one can only speculate and hope that Mazeppa doesn't get taken to court. And that if she does go to court I get to take photos.

And now, in honor of Pinocchio's 69th birthday,

Morning Wood

1 oz vodka

1 oz peach schnapps

1 oz orange juice

1 oz sweet and sour mix

1 oz blackberry liqueur
Pour the vodka, peach schnapps, orange juice and sour mix into a cocktail shaker half-filled with ice cubes. Shake well, and strain into a champagne flute. Sink the blackberry liqueur by pouring it at the side of the glass, thus forming a layer at the bottom. Serve.

Beware the Edies of March

I was a blonde teenage anti-semantic devil bunny

Happy Purim! I got you a Yak. It's Kosher don't worry.

In celebration of this, one of the most joyous and fun holidays on the Jewish calendar, (No, Purim is not a shampoo silly) and as a distraction while trying to ignore the adipocerous nature of the wanna-be Intelligistas in our nations capital, (what with their semantics, double entendres and their crossword puzzles) and after being inspired by the seeing flower buds on the trees and daffodils and crocus popping up all over town, (SPOILER ALERT: Spring has sprung) I dyed my hair today.

Monsieur Moose just brought back a fresh supply from Germany. (I think the name of the color is "Braune Fische") After applying the color, I decided to sit and wait the required hour in the Gothic powder room at Mt. Varnum. It's severely Catholic rococo decor inspired me to perform the severely Protestant "A Bed Among the Lentils", the dramatic monologue written by Alan Bennet about the dark interior life of a provincial vicar's wife, Susan, a woman let down by life and God. Her secret fondness for altar wine and a young Indian grocer with good legs and teeth relieves the tedium of days among sanctimonious parish matrons where flower arranging ranks as a competitive sport. ("One sees them so often in England, those women," she says. "You know them automatically.") mid monologue, as I waited for the color to take, I had the stark realization that I started coloring my hair when I was eight and have never stopped since. That's a lot of Clairol under the bridge.

The first time, in 1969, was totally more than a mere vanity project, I simply had decided to live my life from that time, until further notice, as a Chinese Princess. I had my Beatles mop cut into a smart bob, complete with "China Chop" bangs, and then dyed a dark blue black. (Mom is very forward thinking) This phase eventually was grown out of, after I found after about a year of living like deposed royalty, that it wasn't so easy to change my name to Mai Ling.

The next major look came about, and was really very extremely necessary, after the Lemon Juice, Sun-In, Home Perm Incident Of '74.

What hadn't burned off or fallen out of my skull on its own was buzzed off and dyed "Country Butter Blonde" in my mom's near-hysteric yet totally intrinsic effort to salvage some semblance of presentably.

Just for reference purposes: when the boy next door saw me and my raw head get out of the car, he said I looked like Billy Jean King going through chemo... if Billy Jean King had been an guy. And blonde. (Or would that be blond? hmmm, Semantics...)

Why did I bring this up? Oh, merde....the depth of my shallowness is somewhat distracting, non?

Oh. So, with my mother's beaming blessing, I pretty much bleached my hair from then on for at least three years, with increasing frequency, for several I became "blond-orexic"-- convinced that I wasn't blond enough, that I could be blonder (similar in nature to the dreaded and leathery "Tan-orexic" who layout in January, keep a bottle of baby oil in the glove box and who perennially whine, "I'm soooo pale," holding out a well-done, brittle and crispy appendage for your appraisal)-- and that unless my hair was actually TRANSLUCENT, I was a brunette. When I ran out of money, I desperately decided to do a home job (if I'm not mistaken, the color I chose from the shelf was "Albino Nuclear Holocaust Survivor Clear" by Loreal, chain-mail gloves and safety goggles not included) and I burned all my hair off again.

So I cut it all off. Again.
And DIDN'T. FUCKING. TOUCH. IT. I was sort of hoping (and shut up, everyone hopes this) that maybe I'd have this astounding and beautifully complex natural hair color.

If I asked 100 people to describe the color of my hair, a safe 75 of those people would answer "somewhere between empty toilet paper roll and Denny's waitress brown". The other 25 would be stumped, but might go with some animal; maybe a sad animal that spends all of its time blending in with boring ground cover in the woods and rolling around in the mud without a comb. That, or dirt clods. Hell, I've seen squirrels with far more dimensional color.

Long story short, tired of having people try to wrap long expanses of toilet paper around my head, one weekend I innocently used some conditioner by "Madame Bovary" that's supposed to add "subtle red highlights" and I successfully transformed myself from an "empty toilet paper roll" into My Little Pony.

A close family friend looked at me and told me I looked like Strawberry Shortcake. And then he leaned forward to smell my head. For the strawberries. He kept doing it. And every time I saw that disappointment flicker across his face as he gently squeezed my temples together and inhaled, I longed for the camouflage days of yore, when I could safely blend in with old carpets and burned things. Days when I didn't have an expectant nose pressed to my scalp and when people didn't jump on my back hoping for a free ride to the Little Pony Show Stable.

The good news is that it washed out in five to eight shampoos or something.

From that day forward I have been a regular Pantone color wheel as far as hair colors go.

When my hair was cut into a fashionable mohawk in the late seventies I sported a hot pink hue that was achieved by using industrial carpet dye with the occasional Kool-Aid refresher while I wrote poetry- poorly- about hating disco and being an anarchist, spending all of my days in ballet classes and nights in punk bars.

In the early eighties I dyed my mokawk black, leaving it unspiked, wearing it over one eye not unlike an undead Veronica Lake, and, of course, wearing clothing and nail polish with wrist bandages to match, playing keyboard -poorly- in a band called "Culturecide", while acting moody and talking incessantly about subjects ranging from the true ownership of the Elgin Marbles or the fact Beethoven spent his final years, stone deaf, writing 33 small masterpieces based upon one inferior waltz by another man to complete the ensemble.

My goth period then turned into a hybrid New-Romantic/wave look having my letting the 'hawk grow out and had deep aubergine tresses with perpetual three day stubble as an accessory- (I looked like the offspring of Boy George and George Michael) my conversations consisted of New Age blather and the the discussions of the works of Lord Byron, Gabriel Dante Rossetti and longing to live my life like Gabriele d'Annunzio.

My years of having long hair abruptly came to an end one day when I was zipping around in a little Mercedes 500 SL convertible and got my hair caught in the headrest of the car and had to call my stylist for emergency roadside assistance. (did you know that AAA doesn't have "hair style emergency" coverage? That'll teach me to read the fine print)

I have pretty much kept the color and cut the same since then, with a few excursions into bad hair cuts- one made my head look like a blueberry muffin- and changing from varied shades of rouge, the most recent was a color called "Tempted peach", I have even not colored it at all on occasion, only to find to my horror that it had turned completely white, not a sexy salt and pepper, but full on Santa white. Someone even told my that I looked like Porno Santa. (a compliment?) I have often toyed with the idea of letting it stay that way, but somehow it just doesn't look natural, which is, after all, very important to me.... *sigh* how I suffer for beauty... Oh look, cupcakes!

Cheers, or rather LeChaim, this will put hair on your chest..

The Hair Raiser
1 1/2 oz 100 proof vodka
1/2 oz Rock and Rye® liqueur
1 tbsp lemon juice
Shake all ingredients with ice, strain into a cocktail glass, and serve.

Boire avec Banjo Annie

This morning, as I sit in the breakfast nook (a faithful reproduction of the "Jungle Room" at Graceland) at Mt. Varnum, I have my regrets in leaving the 75 degree weather and the soft smell of orange blossoms of New Orleans for the vast puddles of brown exhaust infused slush of Washington DC. (*sigh* mes regrets sont beaucoup...)

I so enjoyed the time I spent recently at my beloved Chez Moose in New Orleans, the Carnival season was rife with numerous decadent pleasures and social intrigues that I will gladly be sharing with you very soon, but for now, I sit staring at the coffee service that features a hand-painted reproduction of Ecce Homo, (Hieronymus Bosch's 1476 version) I wait for the coffee maker to finish making it's daily miraculous elixir of life, in the background a recording of "Some Cold Rainy Day" by Bertha "Chippie" Hill fills the room with the blues, and my thoughts turn to the eccentrics and colorful characters of my much already missed home town.

Among the long list of nonconformists like "Ruthie the Duck Lady" and "The Lucky Bead Lady" is a woman who was once known as the most famous drinker in modern French Quarter history.

My kinda gal.

When a sixty-five year old street woman known throughout the French Quarter as Banjo Annie died in 1951, a newspaper headline read “Banjo Annie At Rest After Fantastic Career.” Bar owners Pat O’Brien, Charlie Cantrell, and Gasper Gulotta agreed after the funeral that Banjo Annie was by all accounts the most famous drinker in modern Quarter history. Banjo Annie was known as the “Queen of the Quarter” during the 1930s and ‘40s, long before Ruthie the Duck Girl’s reign on the streets and bars of the Vieux Carre from the 1950s throughout the ‘90s. Both local legends have surprisingly much in common, and both famous among residents and tourists alike for their colorful dress and behavior.
Banjo Annie was born in 1886. Her real name, it is believed, was Mrs. Barbara Lee, although many doubted this was her real name. The legend is that she came to New Orleans from Texas. Some say Oklahoma. It was rumored that she was married to a wealthy oil man. Other tales had her married to the mayor of Mobile, or that she descended from an old New Orleans family. Some said she was either the wife or girlfriend of a wealthy lumberman during the World War I era. No one really knew for sure.
George McQueen, the night club impresario, was a bellhop in 1915. He remembers serving the young Barbara Lee in style and elegance at the old Roosevelt Hotel. Later, the once good-looking and stylish girl became a frowsy old street singer, where McQueen would give her coins for drinks. Probably no one will ever know the true story of Barbara Lee and how she ended up on the streets, but another story is that she fell in love with a police officer. She spent all of her money on the cop who eventually left her for another woman when the money ran out. It was then that she took to drink and the guitar, or banjo.
Soon after Barbara Lee hit the streets, she became known as Banjo Annie. She was a habitue of French Quarter bars and restaurants beginning around 1925. Police records show that Banjo Annie first gained her dubious royal title in 1928 when she was arrested for being drunk and disturbing the peace. The arresting officer referred to her as the “Queen of the Quarter.” Since then, Banjo was arrested on the average of once a week. As police put it, “she has been doing a life sentence on the installment plan.”
By the 1940s, knowing she meant no harm, the police would only hold her until she sobered up. The “Queen” was found to be spending most of her time lying in doorways sleeping off the effects of wine. Banjo Annie usually wore several dresses at one time, a man’s cap, and carried a large bottle of gin. Sometimes, her clothes were all but missing. In one case, Annie was given a backless evening gown which she wore on the streets. But she wore it without a slip. And with the back to the front!
She was well educated and could quickly learn any current tune. Her best songs were the ones she composed herself to lampoon many Quarterite socialites. But her most well-known scene, was standing in a doorway while a sharpshooting bartender sprayed her tonsils at a 20-foot distance with soda water just as she hit the high note in “The Old Concert Hall on the Bowery.”
Banjo Annie lived and slept on the streets of the French Quarter. At night, she often slept in Jackson Square in the doorways of the Cathedral. A racehorse owner who felt compassion for the homeless woman commissioned Gasper Gulotta to pay 6 months advance rent on a room so she wouldn’t have to sleep on the streets. Banjo told them to go fly a kite. Friends of Banjo remember three occasions when relatives came to take her home. Again, Banjo told them all to go to Hell.
Not everyone appreciated the eccentricities of Banjo Annie. Some bar owners didn’t want her in their establishments on the chance that she may offend the patrons. But Banjo had a gentle blackmail racket worked out - a regular route – calling on bar owners nightly to be given a quarter to stay away. “ I make my route regularly. The guys don’t like me in their swanky places. So every time I go into them, they give me money to leave,” Banjo was quoted as saying. And other places she was welcomed, provided she didn’t stay more than a few minutes.
Cantrell remembers the time two self-proclaimed “society girls” were found drunk and obnoxious on the streets of the Quarter and got tossed in the third precinct for public intoxication. They chewed out the cops calling them flatfeet, brutes, and bums. The cops got revenge by picking up Banjo Annie and putting her in the cell with the girls. Annie cut loose with an obscene song that “killed the cockroaches on the jailhouse walls.”
But in December of 1946, the fun stopped. Some humorless people in the Quarter complained to authorities that Banjo Annie was a nuisance, and needed to be taken off the streets and locked up. As a result, Banjo was picked up and sent to the asylum at East Louisiana Hospital at Jackson for one year.
Newspaper articles lamented, “No longer will the strumming of guitar strings in the hand of the “Queen of the Quarter” be heard on Vieux Carre banquettes. No longer will the “Queen” keep quarterites and tourists in convulsions of laughter with her off-color witticisms; nor will the populace be able to jeer at the strange costumes she once wore.”
With Banjo gone from the Quarter, there were many rumors over the year that she had died. When Banjo was finally released a year later, she returned to the Quarter during a rainfall - an unusual rainfall that lasted almost a month. A well scrubbed and neatly dressed Banjo walked into her favorite bar and announced, “the Queen has returned!” A newspaper article announced “Annie’s Back,” a changed woman. “Neat as a fresh-laundered bar towel, she was making her ‘route’ to thank friends for gifts sent her while she took the cure,” one paper said. “Mrs. Davis got me out,” Banjo was quoted as saying. The identity of Mrs. Davis is not known. Banjo wanted everyone to know that the rumors of her death were false, and she was still the Queen of Bourbon Street. She stayed sober for a few months, but nobody could get used to it. They wanted the old Annie back - and she started drinking again.
In October of ‘48, Banjo celebrated her birthday at Tony Bacino’s Bar, a popular gay hangout. She was among a crowd of her friends including Bootsie, the bartender, Joe Matranga, Grace King, Joe Buick, Jackie King, Don Dasche, Shirley, Billy and Bobby Keller. They all chipped in and bought a birthday cake with one candle on it. Banjo broke down and cried when they sang “Happy Birthday.” Banjo demanded everyone have a slice of cake, whether they liked it or not.
Six months later, in April of ’49, it was reported Banjo was in serious condition at Charity Hospital. She had a broken hip and had multiple bruises. She was being kept under sedation and given blood plasma infusions. Banjo was unable to give a coherent explanation of her injuries.
In April of 1950, a year later, Banjo broke her leg and was finally placed in the Villa Maria Convalescent Home, 1715 Prytania St. After a couple of weeks, Banjo got restless. She could not stand the monotony of the home any longer. She wanted to be back on the streets of the Quarter where she once reigned as the “Queen.” So Banjo got out of her sickbed, hobbled off on her crutches, and sneaked out of the home. When the staff discovered her missing, they notified the police, who knew just where to find her. Just as they expected, she was at her old stand at Bourbon and Conti St.
Banjo Annie was returned to the convalescent home where she lived for another year and few months. She turned ill and was placed in Charity Hospital. In September of 1951, Barbara Lee, known to thousands as Banjo Annie, died at the age of 65.
Two Sisters of Charity nursed Banjo in the hospital before her death. “Mrs. Lee often said she wanted to see the face of God,” one of the sisters said. “She said it was hard for her to be good from day to day, but she prayed that she would receive the Sacraments of the church before her death.” The church service was held at the St. Louis Cathedral. About 25 people were counted at the church and funeral home. One woman was spotted crying outside the church during the service.
The two Sisters of Charity attended her funeral at Lamana-Panno-Fallo funeral home (625 N. Rampart St.), as well as several bar owners and operators, a French Quarter artist, and “Helen,” the Quarter’s flower lady. There were also a few curiosity-mongers. The Sisters stood quietly among the night life figures next to Banjo Annie’s casket. No family members were in attendance.
Although considered a pauper, Banjo left enough money in a bank account ($280) to pay for the kind of funeral she wanted. Charlie Cantrell, a French Quarter bar owner, handled her bank account which was in the name of Anne O’Rourke. “Banjo always said she wanted a Catholic funeral, and she brought me money every once in a while that she earned by playing the guitar during her sober periods,” Cantrell said. “I banked it for her and never let her take it out.”
Pallbearers were P.T. Eastland, Jacob H. Rowe, Peter Deagano, W.E. Martin, Gerry Tait, and Roland Valeton. Five cars made up the funeral procession.
Banjo was laid to rest in an unmarked vault in the St. Michael’s section of St. Louis Cemetery #3.
Like Annie herself used to say when toasting, "Here's Kicks..."

Banjo Annie

1 shot Southern Comfort peach liqueur

1 shot Yukon Jack Canadian whisky

1 shot Jack Daniel's Tennessee whiskey

1 shot amaretto almond liqueur

1/2 cup orange juice

1/2 cup guava juice
Mix the alcohol in an 8-12 oz glass. Cover and shake for about 3 seconds. Mix the juices together in a glass of your choice, add ice for character, and pour in alcohol. Serve chilled.
Bon nuit, Banjo Annie. We hardly knew ya...

ash wednesday

.::Memento homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris::.
“Why all the ashes?”
Because ashes are a sign, they are a reminder, and ashes are an invitation.
Archaeologists tell us that the people of Israel were not alone in using ashes in rituals of purification. Ashes appear in Phoenician burial art and Arabic expressions. Ashes were a sign of grief, mourning, humiliation and penitence. When Job loses everything, he sits among the ashes. Cursed and overrun by enemies, the Psalmist “eats ashes like bread, and mingles tears with drink.” Ashes are what are left after destruction. After chaos or catastrophe, ashes are what remain.
Ashes also remind us of a common origin. Various Creation stories from around the globe including the second chapter of Genesis (you know from the Bible, the out-of-print bisexually-themed erotic thriller that borrowed from a little bit of every other religion of importance during its compilation) that tells of how we were created from the dust of the ground. Though we may spend our lives trying to distinguish ourselves from others, running after success and trying to feel different from others, the dust and ashes remind us that we are all made of the same stuff. We are reminded not only of our beginning but also of our end. On the First Day of Lent, ashes are imposed with the words, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Those words apply to us all.

Totally Goth- I dig it.
While ashes may signify and remind, they also invite. They invite us to repentance. They invite us to turn again to our God or Gods and to receive new life. Isaiah brings glad tidings to the people of Israel, “to give them a garland instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning.” Ashes are not the end but are just the beginning. They begin a season that moves us through silence and longing into a season of joy and resurrection.
Totally pagan- I dig it.

Let them eat cake- by "them" I mean me.

My king cake consumption was monumental this year- my tally thus far: 4 plastic babies, a porcelain poodle, a sphere marked Venus, a porcelain Jazz musician playing what looks like a large daikon radish and a porcelain penguin from the galette des Rois Monsieur Moose brought back from Paris last week- oink -they are mine. all mine. I am a wealthy king cake trinket miser.

"What is a king cake" you ask?

The "king cake" takes its name from the Biblical three kings. Catholic tradition states that their journey to Bethlehem took twelve days (the Twelve Days of Christmas), and that they arrived to honor the Christ child on Epiphany. The season for king cake extends from the end of the Twelve Days of Christmas (Twelfth Night and Epiphany Day), through to Mardi Gras day.

Some organizations or groups of friends may have "king cake parties" every week through the Carnival season.

The cakes have a small trinket (often a small plastic baby, sometimes said to represent Baby Jesus) inside, a little bean was traditionally hidden in it, a custom taken from the Saturnalia in the Roman Empire: the one who stumbled upon the bean was called "king of the feast." In the galette des Rois, since 1870 the beans have been replaced first by porcelain and, now by plastic figurines; The person who gets the trinket is declared the King or Queen of the day. Sometimes there are separate cakes to select the males and females; the one for women is sometimes called a Loomis Cake. The king or queen is usually obligated to supply the next king cake or host the next party or both. King cake parties may be held at the homes of people who live on or near the routes of Carnival parades.
It is a common practice in elementary and secondary schools to have king cake parties, usually on a Friday. The person who receives the trinket is required to bring the cake the following week.

Some krewes select their monarchs via king cake.

Related culinary traditions are the tortell of Catalonia, the gâteau des Rois in Provence or the galette des Rois in the northern half of France, and the Greek and Cypriot vasilopita.

The galette des Rois is made with puff pastry and frangipane (while the gâteau des Rois is made with brioche and candied fruits).

The French king cake, “La galette des Rois” (the cake or "wafer" of the Kings) is a cake celebrating the Epiphany and traditionally sold and consumed a few days before and after this date. In modern France, the cakes can be found in most bakeries during the month of January. The cake consists of flaky puff pastry layers with a dense center of frangipane.
Tradition holds that the cake is “to draw the kings” to the Epiphany. (The French President is not allowed to “to draw the kings” on Epiphany because of the etiquette rules)

A figurine, “la fève”, which can represent anything from a car to a cartoon character, is hidden in the cake and the person who finds the trinket in their slice becomes king for the day and will have to offer the next cake. Originally, “la fève” was literally a broad bean (fève), but they were replaced in 1870 by a variety of figurines out of porcelain or - more recently - plastic. These figurines have become popular collectibles and can often be bought separately. Individual bakeries may offer a specialized line of fèves depicting diverse themes from great works of art to classic movie stars and popular cartoon characters. The cakes are usually sold in special bags, some of which can be used to heat the cake in a microwave without ruining the crispness of the cake. A paper crown is included with the cake to crown the "king" who finds the fève in their piece of cake. To ensure a random distribution of the cake shares, it is traditional for the youngest person to place themselves under the table and name the recipient of the share which is indicated by the person in charge of the service.
Formerly, one divided the cake in as many shares as guests, plus one. The latter, called "the share of God," "share of the Virgin Mary," or "share of the poor" was intended for the first poor person to arrive at the home.

Cheers!

The Louisiana Flip

1/2 oz absinthe

1/2 oz Cointreau orange liqueur

2 tsp lemon juice

1 egg

1 tsp sugar

nutmeg
Shake ingredients well with ice. Strain into a prechilled Delmonico glass. Sprinkle nutmeg on top.

Delectatio morosa

Over the Valentine's weekend your dear le Cornichon hosted a the post parade pre-bal masque soiree, Using the coincidence of the day being the one after St Valentine's day the idea was that it would be a great opportunity for those persons to gather who despise the holiday in which we are forced by Hallmark, chocolatiers and florists to spend some cash to "prove" our love to those we generally barely tolerate the rest of the year, "...for cocktails and post Saint Valentine's Day Lamentations and Vitriolic Ruminations..."
As Mardi Gras festivities were just getting into full swing, I decided that the party would be right after the "Barkus" parade and before the Satyricon Bal Masque that is always a absolute must go each year during the Mardi Gras season. but more on that later.
The costuming ranged from people dressed as their pets- (people who were coming from the Barkus parade, an all dog parade through the quarter) to serious ball gowns and jewelry and Victorian Mourning Costumes. My kind of crowd.
The day was beautiful sunny one and all of new Orleans seemed to be in a trance of pure ecstasy.
I will tell you more about the Satyricon ball a little later but for now, here are a few ideas tossed about and some things I casually overheard from conversations by my dear guests:

"I go through at least three lollipops a week on Facebook..."

"Your Casaquin: Are you talking about the light weight variation of the petenlair or the house your parents live in?"

"Drunks are like Slinky's- they are so much more fun when you push them down the stairs..."

"What at first blush seems a ridiculously cruel act, in hindsight, the decision on the part of the Farmer's wife to cut the tails off of the three blind mice now seems the best possible recourse given their particular malady."

"So my latest project is an all dog opera, it's called 'Corgi and Bess...."

"Saint Joseph Almond ice cream from Broccato's in New Orleans is the ice cream equivalent of bathing in the light of God while suckling an angels teat."

"When "Beth", the perky, pink-suited ambassador from the far away land of Corporate Headquarters-- where lo, the streets are paved with glowing letters of recommendation and business-class e Tickets, and Blackberry Handhelds frolic in the wild, texting shouts of glee-- Blahnik'ed her way-over to my work area to slap company inventory stickers on both my Target-bought Emerson stereo and my stapler, I barely glanced up from cleaning my nails with a paperclip..."

Humanity is falling in a downward spiral towards a cesspool of ignorance and simplicity. (Note to self: Bring your floaties)

"Shaving the shaft"- missed memo?

My look is apparently "Understated spookiness with a touch of whimsy, tempered with a bit of American nouvelle vague Vreeland-er voracity"

"So, yeah. I am like the boss in our relationship. I mean, like, someone has to be the alfalfa dog..."

"I asked for a "Kiss" poster in 1974 and got the wrong one. I didn't want the band poster, I wanted a print of the painting, you know the one—the Gustav Klimt masterpiece depicting a couple sharing a kiss against a bronze background. So fucking badass..."

When contemplating the myth of time, the theory of relativity and the spacetime continuum, (with a big bowl of fruit) use a peach to represent the Lorentz covariance...

"If this were the 70's, you'd be eating Vanilla Figurines and I'd be setting up the slide projector..."

"I meant to say 'Skewed View' not 'Stewed View..."

" No one is surprised that Underdog can talk. Because it's a cartoon. They are anthropomorphic talking animals. No one is surprised by this."

"He gave his wife a subscription to Wirtschaftswoche, a Lutheran-affiliated German business weekly, for Valentine's day, he called me later in the day to ask if I had a bag of frozen peas...

"Why is there a Haz-mat truck outside with liveried footmen?"

The Madness continued until it was time to go to the Satyricon Bal Masque- Our method of arrival was quite dramatic....

Chocolate Ravage
One glass of Chocolate Ravage will knock you down. You can find the Pop-Ice at store called "Walmart" in the juice isle in a cardboard box for about $2. Chocolate Ravage has a chocolaty taste (due to Yoo-hoo chocolate milk) so your guests are sure to love it.

16 oz vodka
1 1/2 oz Captain Morgan® Original spiced rum
1 1/2 oz Captain Morgan® Parrot Bay coconut rum
1 1/2 oz triple sec
1 sheet Pop-Ice®
15 oz bottle Yoo-hoo® chocolate milk
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup honey
Add ice to a blender until roughly one-quarter to one-third full. Add one sheet worth of pop ice to the blender. Add the vodka, Captain Morgan rums, triple sec, sugar and honey. Adjust sugar and honey to taste if desired. Add one tall yoo-hoo bottle to the blender. Blend until puree consistancy, pour into cocktail glasses and serve.

Valentines and Voodoo

Valentine's Day started in the time of the Roman Empire. In ancient Rome, February 14th was a holiday to honour Juno. Juno was the Queen of the Roman Gods and Goddesses. The Romans also knew her as the Goddess of women and marriage. The following day, February 15th, began the Feast of Lupercalia.
The lives of young boys and girls were strictly separate. However, one of the customs of the young people was name drawing. On the eve of the festival of Lupercalia the names of Roman girls were written on slips of paper and placed into jars. Each young man would draw a girl's name from the jar and would then be partners for the duration of the festival with the girl whom he chose. Sometimes the pairing of the children lasted an entire year, and often, they would fall in love and would later marry.
Under the rule of Emperor Claudius II Rome was involved in many bloody and unpopular campaigns. Claudius the Cruel was having a difficult time getting soldiers to join his military leagues. He believed that the reason was that roman men did not want to leave their loves or families. As a result, Claudius cancelled all marriages and engagements in Rome. The good Saint Valentine was a priest at Rome in the days of Claudius II. He and Saint Marius aided the Christian martyrs and secretly married couples, and for this kind deed Saint Valentine was apprehended and dragged before the Prefect of Rome, who condemned him to be beaten to death with clubs and to have his head cut off. He suffered martyrdom on the 14th day of February, about the year 270. At that time it was the custom in Rome, a very ancient custom, indeed, to celebrate in the month of February the Lupercalia, feasts in honour of a heathen god. On these occasions, amidst a variety of pagan ceremonies, the names of young women were placed in a box, from which they were drawn by the men as chance directed.
The pastors of the early Christian Church in Rome endeavoured to do away with the pagan element in these feasts by substituting the names of saints for those of maidens. And as the Lupercalia began about the middle of February, the pastors appear to have chosen Saint Valentine's Day for the celebration of this new feast. So it seems that the custom of young men choosing maidens for valentines, or saints as patrons for the coming year, arose in this way.
Saint Valentine is not the only name in town when it comes to affairs of the heart.

In the Voodoo Pantheon, there is an important group of female loa (goddesses) whose first name is Erzulie. While all of them share in their role as Goddess of love, art, and sex, each has additional areas of life which is theirs to defend and assist. Erzulie is three in aspect: she can be Erzulie Freda, a virgin goddess likened to the Virgin Mary; Erzulie Dantor, loa of jealousy and passion; or La Siren, a personification of the sea and goddess of motherhood. Her color is pink, her animal a white dove. She is associated with the Lukumi Orisha Oshun, and sometimes Chango (as Erzulie Dantor).

Love and luxury, luck and wealth all are in the domain of Erzulie Freda. Adored by women, venerated by the most masculine of men, yet the patroness of gay men; Erzulie Freda is the powerful Mambo who is nevertheless wheedled with gifts and perfume. Nothing can match the beauty, the excitement and the usefulness of Erzulie Freda's servvice, whether you are male, female, gay or straight. The Non-Initiates' Service for Erzulie Freda is found at: http://www.rootswithoutend.org/fredaserv.html... and the accompanying Erzulie Freda Instructional Package is available at:http://www.rootswithoutend.org/freda_package.html

Peace and love, Bon Mambo Racine Sans Bout Sa Te La Daginen

Erzulie's Kiss

3 tbsp strawberry puree

3/4 oz Malibu® coconut rum
1/2 oz White cocoa

1/2 oz Bailey's® Irish cream

1 oz milk

3 vanilla ice cream
1.Add ingredients into working blender, accordingly through list 2.Blend, and pour into glassware 3. Garnish with Strawberry on glass rim, chocolate syrup swirl on surface, and straw, and is ready to serve.

"Se bon ki ra" - Good is rare -Haitian proverb

Proserpine and Lenore

'Denn die Toten reiten schnell' (For the dead travel fast) is an excerpt from an old German poem 'Lenore' (1773) by Gottfried August Burger (1747-1794) as a young fiancee takes her own life thinking she will never see her love again as he unbeknown to her returns from war..."

As I sat and read this preface to the poem, I thought about the best translation of it, in my humble opinion, - from German to English- by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, (The brother of poet Christina Rossetti, the critic William Michael Rossetti, and author Maria Francesca Rossetti, and was a founder of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood with John Everett Millais and William Holman Hunt) I noticed a beautiful woman seated across from me looking out the window of the cafe, looking for something, someone, her sight reaching miles beyond the pane of glass and the busy street that it separated us from our quiet post we shared with our fellow patrons.
I looked at her for some time, stealthily of course, and after wondering for some time where I have seen her striking face before, I came to a moment of revelation. She was a dead ringer for the woman in D.R. Rossetti's painting "Proserpine".
I am sure that this is was a very rare occasion when the works of Rosetti and Burger were actually realized in the flesh, as I gazed in her face I saw the image not only of Proserpine, but of Lenore the haunting femme in Burgers poem.

Lenora (Lenore) by Göttfried August Bürger

Translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Up rose Lenora as the red morn wore,

From weary visions starting:

"Art faithless, William, or, William, art dead?

'Tis long since thy departing."

For he, with Frederick's men of might,

In fair Prague waged the uncertain fight;

Nor once had he writ in the hurry of war,

And sad was the true heart that sickened afar.
The Empress and the King,

With ceaseless quarrel tired,

At length relaxed the stubborn hate

Which rivalry inspired:

And the martial throng, with laugh and song,

Spoke of their homes as they rode along,

And clank, clank, clank! came every rank,

With trumpet-sound that rose and sank.
And here and there and everywhere,

Along the swarming ways,

Went old man and boy, with the music of joy,

On the gallant bands to gaze;

And the young child shouted to spy the vaward,

And trembling and blushing the bride pressed forward:

But ah! for the sweet lips of Lenora

The kiss and the greeting are vanished and o'er.
From man to man all wildly she ran

With a swift and searching eye;

But she felt alone in the mighty mass,

As it crushed and crowded by:

On hurried the troop, -- a gladsome group, --

And proudly the tall plumes wave and droop:

She tore her hair and she turned her round,

And madly she dashed her against the ground.
Her mother clasped her tenderly

With soothing words and mild:

"My child, may God look down on thee, --

God comfort thee, my child."

"Oh! mother, mother! gone is gone!

I reck no more how the world runs on:

What pity to me does God impart?

Woe, woe, woe! for my heavy heart!"
"Help, Heaven, help and favour her!

Child, utter an Ave Maria!

Wise and great are the doings of God;

He loves and pities thee."

"Out, mother, out, on the empty lie!

Doth he heed my despair, -- doth he list to my cry?

What boots it now to hope or to pray?

The night is come, -- there is no more day."
"Help, Heaven, help! who knows the Father

Knows surely that he loves his child:

The bread and the wine from the hand divine

Shall make thy tempered grief less wild."

"Oh! mother, dear mother! the wine and the bread

Will not soften the anguish that bows down my head;

For bread and for wine it will yet be as late

That his cold corpse creeps from the grim grave's gate."
"What if the traitor's false faith failed,

By sweet temptation tried, --

What if in distant Hungary

He clasp another bride? --

Despise the fickle fool, my girl,

Who hath ta'en the pebble and spurned the pearl:

While soul and body shall hold together

In his perjured heart shall be stormy weather."
"Oh! mother, mother! gone is gone,

And lost will still be lost!

Death, death is the goal of my weary soul,

Crushed and broken and crost.

Spark of my life! down, down to the tomb:

Die away in the night, die away in the gloom!

What pity to me does God impart?

Woe, woe, woe! for my heavy heart!"
"Help, Heaven, help, and heed her not,

For her sorrows are strong within;

She knows not the words that her tongue repeats, --

Oh! count them not for sin!

Cease, cease, my child, thy wretchedness,

And think on thy promised happiness;

So shall thy mind's calm ecstasy

Be a hope and a home and a bridegroom to thee."
"My mother, what is happiness?

My mother, what is Hell?

With William is my happiness --

Without him is my Hell!

Spark of my life! down, down to the tomb:

Die away in the night, die away in the gloom!

Earth and Heaven, and Heaven and earth,

Reft of William are nothing worth."
Thus grief racked and tore the breast of Lenora,

And busy was her brain;

Thus rose her cry to the Power on high,

To question and arraign:

Wringing her hands and beating her breast, --

Tossing and rocking without any rest; --

Till from her light veil the moon shone thro',

And the stars leapt out of the darkling blue.
But hark to the clatter and the pat pat patter!

Of a horse's heavy hoof!

How the steel clanks and rings as the rider springs!

How the echo shouts aloof!

While slightly and lightly the gentle bell

Tingles and jingles softly and well;

And low and clear through the door plank thin

Comes the voice without to the ear within:
"Holla! holla! unlock the gate;

Art waking, my bride, or sleeping?

Is thy heart still free and still faithful to me?

Art laughing, my bride, or weeping?"

"Oh! wearily, William, I've waited for you, --

Woefully watching the long day thro', --

With a great sorrow sorrowing

For the cruelty of your tarrying."
"Till the dead midnight we saddled not, --

I have journeyed far and fast --

And hither I come to carry thee back

Ere the darkness shall be past."

"Ah! rest thee within till the night's more calm;

Smooth shall thy couch be, and soft, and warm:

Hark to the winds, how they whistle and rush

Thro' the twisted twine of the hawthorn-bush."
"Thro' the hawthorn-bush let whistle and rush, --

Let whistle, child, let whistle!

Mark the flash fierce and high of my steed's bright eye,

And his proud crest's eager bristle.

Up, up and away! I must not stay:

Mount swiftly behind me! up, up and away!

An hundred miles must be ridden and sped

Ere we may lie down on the bridal-bed."
"What! ride an hundred miles tonight,

By thy mad fancies driven!

Dost hear the bell with its sullen swell,

As it rumbles out eleven?"

"Look forth! look forth! the moon shines bright:

We and the dead gallop fast thro' the night.

'Tis for a wager I bear thee away

To the nuptial couch ere the break of day."
"Ah, where is the chamber, William dear,

And William, where is the bed?"

"Far, far from here: still, narrow, and cool;

Plank and bottom and lid."

"Hast room for me?" --

"For me and thee; Up, up to the saddle right speedily!

The wedding-guests are gathered and met,

And the door of the chamber is open set."
She busked her well, and into the selle

She sprang with nimble haste, --

And gently smiling, with a sweet beguiling,

Her white hands clasped his waist: --

And hurry, hurry! ring, ring, ring!

To and fro they sway and swing;

Snorting and snuffing they skim the ground,

And the sparks spurt up, and the stones run round.
Here to the right and there to the left

Flew fields of corn and clover,

And the bridges flashed by to the dazzled eye,

As rattling they thundered over.

"What ails my love? the moon shines bright:

Bravely the dead men ride through the night.

Is my love afraid of the quiet dead?"

"Ah! no; -- let them sleep in their dusty bed!"
On the breeze cool and soft what tune floats aloft,

While the crows wheel overhead? --

Ding dong! ding dong! 'tis the sound, 'tis the song, --

"Room, room for the passing dead!"

Slowly the funeral-train drew near,

Bearing the coffin, bearing the bier;

And the chime of their chaunt was hissing and harsh,

Like the note of the bull-frog within the marsh.
"You bury your corpse at the dark midnight,

With hymns and bells and wailing; --

But I bring home my youthful wife

To a bride-feast's rich regaling.

Come, choister, come with thy choral throng,

And solemnly sing me a marriage-song;

Come, friar, come, -- let the blessing be spoken,

That the bride and the bridegroom's sweet rest be unbroken."
Died the dirge and vanished the bier: --

Obedient to his call,
Hard hard behind, with a rush like the wind,

Came the long steps' pattering fall:

And ever further! ring, ring, ring!

To and fro they sway and swing;

Snorting and snuffing they skim the ground,

And the sparks spurt up, and the stones run round.
How flew to the right, how flew to the left,

Trees, mountains in the race! How to the left, and the right and the left,

Flew the town and market-place!

"What ails my love? the moon shines bright:

Bravely the dead men ride thro' the night.

Is my love afraid of the quiet dead?"

"Ah, let them alone in their dusty bed!"

See, see, see! by the gallows tree,

As they dance on the wheel's broad hoop,

Up and down, in the gleam of the moon

Half lost, an airy group: --

"Ho! ho! mad mob, come hither amain,

And join in the wake of my rushing train; --

Come, dance me a dance, ye dancers thin,

Ere the planks of the marriage-bed close us in."
And hush, hush, hush! the dreamy rout

Came close with a ghastly bustle,

Like the whirlwind in the hazel-bush,

When it makes the dry leaves rustle:

And faster, faster! ring, ring, ring!

To and fro they sway and swing;

Snorting and snuffing they skim the ground,

And the sparks spurt up, and the stones run round.
How flew the moon high overhead,

In the wild race madly driven!

In and out, how the stars danced about,

And reeled o'er the flashing heaven!

"What ails my love? the moon shines bright:

Bravely the dead men ride thro' the night.

Is my love afraid of the quiet dead?"

"Alas! let them sleep in their narrow bed."
"Horse, horse! meseems 'tis the cock's shrill note,

And the sand is well nigh spent;

Horse, horse, away! 'tis the break of day, --

'Tis the morning air's sweet scent.

Finished, finished is our ride:

Room, room for the bridegroom and the bride!

At last, at last, we have reached the spot,

For the speed of the dead man has slackened not!"
And swiftly up to an iron gate

With reins relaxed they went;

At the rider's touch the bolts flew back

And the bars were broken and bent;

The doors were burst with a deafening knell,

And over the white graves they dashed pell mell:

The tombs around looked grassy and grim,

As they glimmered and glanced in the moonlight dim.
But see! but see! in an eyelid's beat,

Towhoo! a ghastly wonder!

The horseman's jerkin, piece by piece,

Dropped off like brittle tinder!

Fleshless and hairless, a naked skull,

The sight of his weird head was horrible;

The lifelike mask was there no more,

And a scythe and a sandglass the skeleton bore.
Loud snorted the horse as he plunged and reared,

And the sparks were scattered round: --

What man shall say if he vanished away,

Or sank in the gaping ground?

Groans from the earth and shrieks in the air!

Howling and wailing everywhere!

Half dead, half living, the soul of Lenora

Fought as it never had fought before.
The churchyard troop, -- a ghostly group, --

Close round the dying girl;

Out and in they hurry and spin

Through the dance's weary whirl:

"Patience, patience, when the heart is breaking;

With thy God there is no question-making:

Of thy body thou art quit and free:

Heaven keep thy soul eternally!"

Cheers.

Totentanz

1/2 oz vodka

1/2 oz triple sec

1/2 oz rum

1/2 oz gin

1/2 oz 1800 Tequila

1 oz sweet and sour mix

1/2 oz Blue Curacao liqueur

4 - 6 oz Sprite soda
Shake ingredients, except Sprite, together in a cocktail shaker half-filled with ice cubes. Add Sprite and stir. Strain into a hurricane glass over ice, and serve. (Did you know Sprite is referred to in some parts of Switzerland, simply as citro. In China, it is called 雪碧 (Pinyin: xuĕ bì, roughly pronounced as "shueh bee", literally "snow-jade.")

Mourning becomes Elective

"Dead! dead I tell you! What am I going to do? I can't function without..., oh mon Dieu, I can't, I just can't! The female voice paused and then continued shakily, " Does Starbucks deliver? How about CC's?
I pulled the silk and rhinestone sleeping mask from my eyes, and shrugging on a bed jacket I asked "Who is this? The voice on the other end of the telephone shrieked "Who the hell do you think it is?" Giving the fact that it was an ungodly hour- 11 AM- I thought it could not possibly be anyone I know well, you know those types, all what with their up before the crack of noon nonsense. Then again, knowing my friends, with their penchant for theatrics and random acts of moxie, (that includes crimes of passion) it could be anyone of them.
I nearly dropped the Baccarat tumbler as I fumbled to get a drink to wash away the residual aftertaste of last nights Restoril, but in the few seconds of taking a few sips of watered down Boodles and tonic, I figured out who the voice was on the other end of the line. "Mazeppa?" "No, It's the bloody Queen of the Netherlands..." she sobbed.

"What is going on and whom may I ask is dead?" I asked.
In a voice much like a dogs squeaky toy she replied, "My Mr. Coffee! It's just too terrible, what am I going to do? I keep pushing the damned button and nothing happens!"
Clearing my throat and trying to think logically I asked her, "Is it plugged in? Is there water in the water... thingy?" "OF COURSE!" she bellowed into the phone. I continued down an emergency check list, "Where is Cabeza Cacahuete?" (her maid) "She can certainly pop out and get a mocha venti whatever for you, and pick up another coffee maker while she is out... By the way dear, why you insist on these American brand coffee makers is beyond me, why there is a perfectly marvelous Delonghi that..."
"It is her DAY OFF!" she howled into the phone.

"Ah, I see your dilemma..." (and here I thought all along that her maid situation was more of a lease to own situation) "Let me put on a fresh pair of scanties and I will be right over" I offered.
"Bring...some... coffee... Community... New... Orleans... Blend... plu...lease..." a sigh and a click was all I heard after that.
I could feel her pain, I really could, so I threw on a sable, tucked the Delonghi coffee urn under my arm and hailed a cab. It was a very Butterfield Eight moment.
After consuming every drop the coffee urn held, 250 ounces, the Countess Philomena Dominio Hudson Usher - Mazeppa to her friends- seemed much better, chatty, but better, so well in fact that she decided that she wanted to go and shop for a new car. ("Mercedes to be precise" to quote from the song) "Something the color of an ice cream sundae... to match my new spring wardrobe..."
While untangling an emerald earring from her Eva Gabor wig, she offhandedly remarked "Oh and did you hear about Red? Dead you know... She was always so jealous of these earrings, they were Carol Lombard's ..." Grasping at my invisible strand of pearls I asked "Really? What happened?" Twisting on a new pair of lips, (Beige Mythique by Chanel) Mazeppa rolled her eyes, "Died in the throws of passion I hear... in the bed of Dr. Whasshisname, you know the one that is always on the talk shows."

Looking down at a crumpled serviette as if it were our dear departed friend I said, "Well I guess Red 'had a good run' as they say in showbiz.."

Mazeppa snorted, "Yes and she always said she wanted to go out of this world the way she came in, 'Naked, wet and screaming in the arms of a rich doctor..." adding, "You know leC, I think that would be a great way to go, I mean, there are some ghastly ways to die, why, when I was on safari the last time, watching a group of white-backed vultures eating the carcass of a wildebeest that had been killed by lions I thought, 'that would be an awful thing to happen to me or any one I know' Lions always have set my teeth on edge, -I met Leo the MGM lion once, looked at me like I was a leg of mutton- I suppose the being eaten by vultures part afterwards was not so pleasant either, but hell, your dead anyway so whats the big deal? Now, I think if your friend is being eaten by vultures, it's OK to feed the vultures pieces of your friend and get them to learn tricks, but only if you plan on adopting the vultures as pets, don't you think? I mean really, vultures are kind of rough and rumble looking but in a cute way, they could be the next pitbull... I am simply devoted to "ghetto fabulous' and all that....what would you even name a vulture? Bitsy would be a cute name... or Tangina... Do you think Purina makes Vulture Chow?"

I didn't answer that question, pretending to act if I had not heard a word of it and pulling the flask out of her hand, I chose instead to remark that a grand wake with all the trimmings was exactly what I would expect for a final tribute to a local legend.

The very next day as we walked behind the procession of what one would call a traditional "jazz funeral", we chatted about what a "What a great turnout" and how it was "better than Ike Turners even" and remarked that Red had chosen some great music for the band to play for the dirge, I thought the songs "I want a little sugar in my bowl" and "Your husband is cheating on us" stood out in particular. (Red always did have to add a dash of panache in everything she did)

Just like when we in New Orleans talk about other meals and recipes while we are having another, we decided that we too would plan an how to have a little fun when it comes to our own final sendoff. Mazeppa came up with a few great ideas like being cremated and placed inside a big mammy cookie jar, having it proudly displayed in the glass windowed hearse drawn by horses dyed her signature Schiaparelli "shocking pink". (I didn't have the heart to tell here that I have already seen it done)

One of our other ideas to put the fun back into funerals was the scathingly brilliant idea to have a large cake in the shape of a coffin and at a crucial moment while the hired mourners are wailing with grief, someone pops out of the cake and leads the mourners into dancing the Virginia reel, or maybe a polka, if we are in America at the time we could always have a hoe down. (A theme is certainly important, and mandatory costume would absolutely be de rigeur, its not as hard to polka while in 17th century Venetian court costume as you would think)
Mazeppa teared up a little bit as the funeral procession played "Just a Closer Walk with Thee" while it wound it's way down the street, "Once after a show we got really hammered on Champagne juleps and changed the words to 'Just a Closer Walk with Cheese' It was really hysterical... guess you would have to of been there..." she sniffed, "I always loved this song, She used to do a striptease to it that brought down the house."

Red, who's stage name was "Dynamite Red" was a former burlesque star that had retired from show business and started a baked goods business called "A-dough-ables" that not only were tasty, but had vaguely erotic look to them; Along with a line of pastries that looked like Georgia O'Keefe flowers, there were her everyday big sellers, like the "Priapus Baguettes" "Satyr Day/Night Special Rolls".

The joie de vivre that Red possessed was shared with everyone she knew and loved, (as witnessed to fact that all of A-dough-ables proceeds were donated to the care of ageing Nuns from the parish where she grew up.) and like the exquisite baked creations of her later career, as a danseuse her imagination was the key that opened the door to her great success, with elaborate props, beautiful costumes, mood lighting, and original music always being incorporated into her acts. This only enhanced her natural beauty and talents of the buxom strawberry blonde.

Besides Dynamite Red, there were a bevy of exotic dancers like Lilly Christine the Cat Girl, Evangeline the Oyster Girl, Alouette Leblanc the Tassel Twirler, Kalantan the Heavenly Body, Rita Alexander the Champagne Girl, Blaze Starr, Linda Brigette, the Cupid Doll, and Tee Tee Red.
The young beauties of Bourbon Street gained star status. They had their own hairstylists, maids, assistants, agents, and managers. They mingled with visiting celebrities. Some exotic dancers were given small roles in films. Red graced the cover of dozens of national magazines, and appeared in a few movies. Considered the top attraction on Bourbon Street, she performed at the top clubs.

Turning down onto Bourbon Street, I spoke to a musician, that worked with "Dynamite" who recalled her popularity, "One time they had a hurricane threatening. People were standing outside the 500 Club a block long waiting to get in. That’s how popular she was. With a hurricane warning!"

Red was apparently so flattered that she even put the hurricane angle into her act. During her dance there was a wind machine that blew her clothes off and then a big sequined papier mache cloud would sail in over head and soak her with rain.

As we walked, we passed the building that at one time was the 500 club, a sudden gust of wind blew Mazeppas Eva Gabor wig off her head, sending it and one of the "Lombard emeralds" skittering down the street and into a pile of horse poop.

I knew at that moment our friend Red -who had passed on "to march in that great second line in the sky" -was laughing her ass off up there somewhere.

A toast to Red, and to a closer walk with cheese...

Champagne Julep

4 oz Champagne

2 oz bourbon whiskey

1 tsp superfine sugar

6 mint leaves
Combine 4 mint leaves with the sugar and a few drops of water, and muddle well. Add the bourbon, and stir well. Strain into a Collins glass, add ice cubes and the champagne. Garnish with 2 mint leaves shaped like pasties, and serve.

Quoth the Raven, «Nevermore»

Those of us that fit into the category of personne publique get the occasional stalker or the disgruntled plebe that wishes to tilt at our particular windmills, to this phenomenon I generally say Ho- Hum and shrug it off like a mink bathrobe before getting into the shower, but in this case I feel it is my duty to help this particular poor bastard before he gets in too far over his pointy little head.

For "Anonymous"

A few words about a few words:

1. If you have a valid opinion on someones perceived behavior or actions, try and not present them anonymously, it reeks of poor upbringing and a certain passive-aggressive je ne sais quoi that is so tiresome and therefore will not be taken seriously. You shall be mocked publicly as well as privately and then flicked like a bug off the fabric of the chemise of Minerva by the Moirae. (sheesh, Google it for crissake)
   
2. Telling someone that their karma will come back on them "Three times three" is the equivalent of calling up your foe and telling them that the deadline to file their taxes is April 15th. Nothing more. (If anything, it shows how little you know about how the real universe works, and makes you look like a typical fucking imbecile that watches "Charmed" or movies like "The Craft" for your information)
3. It is also very helpful to elaborate why that you feel the need to announce the coming "woes" of this person, i.e. what the hell did they ever do to you, is it like a personal vendetta? If so that can be really fun, I majored in "18th Century Austrian court" as you are surly aware. Best of luck if that is the case, otherwise put your voodoo dolls away, here is some information that might clear things up for you...

More on Karma, retribution and the law of Three Times Three - since you have obviously not done your homework:

There is no need for a Hell, or Final Judgment, in witchcraft because of their belief in retribution in the present life. It is thought that whatever you do will return three-fold.

The actual thought is that Witches believe that any act of magic rebounds thricefold on the operator, it is an Garnerian belief that whatever is done returns three-fold. If good is done then good will return threefold in the same life; but if evil is done, then that too will return threefold in this life.

The Aleanderian tradition states: It is a well-established occult principle that psychic attack which comes up against a stronger defense rebounds threefold upon the attacker, a belief in 'the boomerang effect'; namely, that any magical effort, whether beneficent or malicious, is liable to rebound threefold on the person who makes it.

The bottom line is, don't try to threaten someone-even anonymously- that can magically make you kick your own ass.

1. If you must quote from any specific writings from a certain path or belief system, get your quotes correct before you decide to use them as a warning or a threat.
2. Please do not further emphasize your lack of knowledge of said writings by quoting a partial passage and then finishing by saying "Yada yada yada". Firstly, no one says Yada yada yada anymore and secondly it comes off sounding like Seinfeld is your personal as well as spiritual guru; That is not only sad, it is what is termed as being "pedestrian."
3. Don't make idle threats that include phrases like "Get greased up and get ready for it" because you certainly don't have a dick big enough - physically, psychically or magically-to do anything more than be moderately comical at best or slightly irritating at worst.
4. Take this little bit of advice to heart - those that have it coming to them in "the end" so to speak, either rarely do, or are pre-greased already, your furthur assistance will not be needed in this matter.

Namaste, Blessed be, L'Chaim, Via con Dios, be sure to eat all of your Ovaltine, get a life and always wear your (psychic) condoms ,

XXX le C.

Adios Motherfucker

1/2 oz vodka

1/2 oz rum

1/2 oz 1800 Tequila

1/2 oz gin

1/2 oz Blue Curacao liqueur

2 oz sweet and sour mix

2 oz 7-Up soda
Pour all ingredients except the 7-Up into a chilled glass filled with ice cubes. Top with 7-Up and stir gently. Garnish with Envy and Wrath. Serve with torpid mannerisms. Thanks Hon.

The Wind, the Raven and the Bees

When I was a child I listened to the wind
I knew his language and never questioned his requests

In Autumn when the summer came to it's end

as the sun came down in low in the sky

we would dance with the tall grass

running and jumping without a care

singing songs of the harvest and down filled nights to come

when jack o'lanterns roamed the night
to keep me safe and sound

*

In December when goose was eaten and cobwebs abound

he would come into my room
dressed in flapping gossamer drapes
to tease me with the cold
and tell me stories of Spring

when he would engage the last of the snowflakes to dance

like so many old-maids at the Mardi Gras ball

*

In the cool of the Spring night
he'd call me, whispering through the window cracks
I would wait for him out past dusk and lay beside in my willow tree
he'd tousle my hair and make me twirl, spinning me around like a leaf

or sing me songs that frightened me
but I stayed in his arms

because I knew we were as kin

the wind and I

*

When I was a child I talked with the honeybees

I was their charge

a flower that smiled and laughed

without fear and without care
the bees and I, we understood
things about unquestioned love,

and blessings delivered in the colors of yellow and black

they swarmed me with it

honey scented and full of grace

as if I were an apple tree, bloated with blossoms

*

When I was a child I spoke to the raven
the raven listened and spoke words of woe, but didn't stay long
I longed for his company, but knew that desire was like a dark blue fruit

to know the secrets that the raven kept

to taste was to know and to know was too soon

for such a child as I

so I sat waiting under the honeysuckle, waiting for the bees
to sail upon our friend the wind

to bless me yet again

*

I saw the raven again one day

I, this time as a man
he saw me but did not stop to talk
for I was walking in the city of the dead
"Today the bone-yard yields no fascination" I thought

for those with iridescent wings
but as I passed a centuries old tomb
there was a familiar sound
a drape of honeybees had found a home
among the bones and weeping cherubs

blessing someones dust

inside and over words carved "Our Darling"

now a home for the bees
*

Today the honeybees are somewhat more seldom in their visits

but the wind still visits me
and reminds me of our affair
we whisper about what the raven knows

and mourn the blessings of the bees

Love and Mr. Tuba

It was a cool, crisp and clear day in the French Quarter today.
While walking through the Vieux Carre this afternoon I saw a familiar face, sitting on a park bench in Jackson Square, an old gentleman named Mr. Tuba, so I decided stopped for a while to talk and see how he was "makin' out" as we say here.

I suppose the name Tuba might seem a bit odd to those not from the area, how he got the name is certainly a mystery, no one I know has ever seen or heard anything in evidence in the form of a large brass instrument to explain the name, but I think that someone with the name Tuba has certainly no explaining to do- non?

One of the most amazing things is simply sitting and talking with him, listening to Mr. Tuba is like exploring a rare artifact or manuscript and deciphering it's secret code.

Mr. Tuba is somewhere between the age of 80 and 110 years old, he claims his own birthday wasn't ever that important a day to him as were the other special days of his life, His first amoureau's kiss, his first dance, the birth of his children, and his children's children, (some of whom are still around and, "some dead, some moved off") the day he learned to spell his first words, "I learned to read the almanaque, spelled out Février" and the day a black man was elected President of the United States. "I told my friend 50 years ago that if a colored man ever got to be the President, I would walk down Bourbon street in a dress, don't think nobody would care much to see that nowdays, but then!" leaning in, he confided with a chortle, "But you know cher, I still got them legs!"

As he spoke, the days that make up his life seemed to stretch out like his shadow in the late afternoon sunlight in front of St. Louis Cathedral.

I looked at his beautiful, yet time weathered face and saw the traces of a much younger man, who at one time must have been quite the Don Juan, one who was -and still is- quite the raconteur.

There was a young couple, walking arm and arm, that spoke to say hello as they passed by - Mr. Tuba whispered, "I know that boy, galeux for true he is, got the girl now, but the keepings the thing!" as he roared with laughter, I asked him if he had any advice about love.

His answer came with a chuckle and a wink in the form of a limerick of sorts- in the queer, almost French plantation society dialect you never hear anymore:

.

Ta maitresse est bien trop coquette

Elle te ferma mille tours

Et sera bon `a tes amours

Pour te mener: `a la baguette!

.

Cheers, to love...

.

Mr. Tuba's Love Potion #9

4 cups lemonade

1 package Kool-Aid mix

1 cup vodka

half cup white rum
Pour lemonade into a jug, add vodka and rum, 1 pouch of kool-aid (cherry or orange), cover and shake.

St. Brigid

The photo pictured above, taken in candlelight, is a large portrait in oil I did some years back of St. Brigid that hangs in the front parlor of Chez Moose.

We always love the annual Brigid Ball here in New Orleans, it brings together the Pagan community from all paths and creeds, the ghouls, the freaks as well as members of "proper society", to give thanks and ask for Her blessing for the coming year;

And, interestingly enough, the Feast of St. Brigid, also Known as Imbolc, Candlemas and Groundhog's Day all have a connection if you know where to look.

So, OK, here's the thing..

In Celtic, Brigid or Brighid ("exalted one") was the daughter of the Dagda and one of the Tuatha Dé Danann. She was the wife of Bres of the Fomorians, with whom she had a son, Ruadán. She had two sisters, also named Brighid, and is considered a classic Celtic Triple Goddess.
Given the struggle Christian missionaries faced in their efforts to preach the Gospel in Ireland, even though they Christianized some elements, the adoption of a pagan goddess into the Communion of Saints may have been an effort to Christianize one of the most enduring pagan goddesses

Maman Brigitte, (or Brijit) one of the Lwa of Haitian Voodoo, is a form of Brigid or Brighid. It is likely that the concept came to the New World through the Irish who were kidnapped, enslaved and forced to labor in the Caribbean alongside the enslaved Africans. Because of the intermarriage and cultural blending between the Irish and Africans, it is possible that Haitian Voodo is partially influenced by survivals of Celtic polytheism. (a lot of that went on in New Orleans back in the day)

Voudon, Voodoo, Vodou has many fiery, magical spirits, of which Brijit is one.

Brijit is a lawyer and a judge. She is a corpse and The mother of the Dead. She lives under the grave of the first woman buried in the cemetery. If the oldest grave in a cemetery is a woman's, then Brijit owns that cemetery. She is married to Bawon Samedi (the Baron of Saturday night) -- she and he are the heads of the Gede family (spirits of death, sex, and regeneration). She is the only Vodou Lwa I know of, who is of Irish descent. (the story goes that Irish peasants fleeing the potato famine in the 1840s and 1850s, were considered lower in worth than African slaves, and were often considered "expendable", literally worked to death, digging the "Irish Channel" in New Orleans, many turned to Voudou and St. Brigid for help)

On the evening of the Brigid Ball here in New Orleans, there will be an opening veve (ritual drawing in cornmeal, which calls a particular spirit) and song for Bawon Kalfou, the baron of the crossroads, who opens the door to the other spirits. Then there will be a veve created and some songs to call Brijit. In Vodou, the sacred songs are prayers or invocations. They will consecrate the veve and say prayers to the Lwa and to Brijit. They will spray the veve with rum to activate it, and then dance for Brijit.

And I mean dance like Tracy Turnblad at the Miss Auto Show 1963 pageant.

Groundhog day...Ground Hog Day is actually a descendant of the pagan Imbolc celebration (Feast of Brigid). The goddess Brigid was a diviner, able to "see" into the future. It's easy to see how she came to be the patron saint of weather forecasters.
What Mother Nature was wont to do was certainly an issue best left in the hands of the goddesses. In Scotland, Cailleach, the Old Woman of Winter, was reborn at Imbolc as a goddess named Bride who was the Scottish incarnation of the Irish Brigid and also the Maiden of Spring. And folklore had it that "Early on Bride's morn the serpent shall come from its hole".
And there was a similar prediction associated with Brigid on February 2, her Saint's Day in the Christian tradition: "If Candlemas Day is bright and clear, there will be two winters this year", goes the saying.
In other words, if hibernating animals emerge to find sunlight and shadow on February 2, then winter will continue for the full 12 weeks. But what could the groundhog possibly have to do with the weather?
Our American folk-calendar keeps the tradition of Groundhog's Day, a day to predict the coming weather, telling us that if the Groundhog sees his shadow, there will be six more weeks of winter. This custom is ancient. An old British rhyme tells us that 'If Candlemas Day be bright and clear, there'll be two winters in the year.' Actually, all of the cross-quarter days can be used as inverse weather predictors, whereas the quarter-days are used as direct weather predictors. Vance Randolf, an Ozark folklorist, stated that the "old-timers" used to celebrate Groundhogs Day on February 14th. Groundhog Day in the U.S. originated with the Imbolc celebrations of German immigrants who settled in Pennsylvania. Looking for a hibernating animal that would make a suitable forecaster, they chose the groundhog. (Perhaps their decision was even influenced by their neighbors, the native Americans of the Delaware tribe who revered Wojak, the groundhog, and other animals as sacred descendants of their Creator.)
Candlemas...The Candlemas season of February 2 each year is unique. It includes,
A Pagan Sabbat: Candlemas, usually celebrated on or near the evening of February 2. Mainly celebrated by Neo-Pagans (no that's not a dirty word) A Christian holy day, and a Welsh festival known as NOS GWYL FAIR, that begins sundown, February 2; Fire Festival of Cerridwen, when we prepare light so that our goddess may find her way out of the darkness and return to us; Cerridwen, the triple goddess of poetry, smith-craft, and medicine, presides. We bid farewell to the horned god.

Witches & Druids celebrate Candlemas in different ways.

For some modern Witches, the old style Candlemas is the Pagan version of Valentine's Day, de-emphasising romantic love and re-emphasising of Pagan carnal frivolity. This also re-aligns the holiday with the ancient Roman Lupercalia, a fertility festival held at this time, in which the priests of Pan ran through the streets of Rome whacking young women with goatskin thongs to make them fertile. The women seemed to enjoy the attention and often stripped in order to afford better targets. Ahhh, good times...

Valentines' Day gets mixed up in this holiday. This is due to the a 10 day displacement when Europe switched from a Julian calendar to a Gregorian calendar. The average length of a year in the Julian Calendar was 365.25 days (one additional day being added every four years). This is significantly different from the "real" length of the solar year. However, there is uncertainty among astronomers as to what the length of the solar year really is. The main competing values seem to be the "mean tropical year" of 365.2422 days ("mean solar days") and the "vernal equinox year" of 365.2424 days. The difference of the length of the Julian calendar year from the length of the real solar year is thus 0.0078 days (11.23 minutes) in the former case and 0.0076 days (10.94 minutes) in the latter case.
This error accumulated so that after about 131 years the calendar is out of sync with the equinoxes and solstices by one day. Thus as the centuries passed the Julian Calendar became increasingly inaccurate with respect to the seasons. This was especially troubling to the Roman Catholic Church because it affected the determination of the date of Easter, which, by the 16th Century, was well on the way to slipping into Summer.
Pope Paul III recruited several astronomers, principally the Jesuit Christopher Clavius (1537-1612), to come up with a solution. They built upon calendar reform proposals by the astronomer and physician Luigi Lilio (d. 1576). When Pope Gregory XIII was elected he found various proposals for calendar reform before him, and decided in favor of that of Clavius. On 1582-02-24 he issued a papal bull, Inter Gravissimas, establishing what is now called the Gregorian Calendar reform. And Valentines day slid from Feb 2 to Feb 14. So Valentines day (February 14) is really the old style candlemas and Nos Gwyl Fair (February 2) is the new style Candlemas. Like the other High Holidays or Great Sabbats of the Witches' year, Candlemas is sometimes celebrated on it's alternate date, astrologically determined by the sun at 15-degrees Aquarius, or Candlemas Old Style.

Still with me? OK that last part was kind of boring I know- but I feel it's something you need to know- information is power. You can thank me later. Here have a drink, you will feel better immediately... something appropriate....

Zombie

1/2 oz Bacardi® 151 rum

1 oz pineapple juice

1 oz orange juice

1/2 oz apricot brandy

1 tsp sugar

2 oz light rum

1 oz dark rum

1 oz lime juice
Blend all ingredients with ice except Bacardi 151 proof rum. Pour into a collins glass. Float Bacardi 151 proof rum on top. Garnish with a fruit slice, sprig of mint and a cherry.

BILOLO!! (Kind of a Vodou equivalent of "Amen", "Blessed be" or "Holla!")

Kung Hei Fat Choi

It's Chinese New Year! Pass the red envelopes please...
According to tales and legends, the beginning of Chinese New Year started with the fight against a mythical beast called the Nian or "Year" in Chinese. Nian would come on the first day of New Year to devour livestock, crops, and even villagers, especially children. To protect themselves, the villagers would put food in front of their doors at the beginning of every year. It was believed that after the Nian ate the food they prepared, it wouldn’t attack any more people. One time, people saw that the Nian was scared away by a little child wearing red. The villagers then understood that the Nian was afraid of the color red. Hence, every time when the New Year was about to come, the villagers would hang red lanterns and red spring scrolls on windows and doors. People also used firecrackers to frighten away the Nian. From then on, the Nian never came to the village again. The Nian was eventually captured by Hongjun Laozu, an ancient Taoist monk. The Nian became Hongjun Laozu's mount.

This is the Year of the Ox.

The Ox is thought to be the sign of prosperity through fortitude and hard work. The Ox is a power sign, like the Rat, Snake, Dragon, Tiger, and Monkey. They're quite dependable and possess an innate ability to achieve great things. As one might guess, such people are dependable, calm, and modest. Like their animal namesake, the Ox is unswervingly patient, tireless in their work, and capable of enduring any amount of hardship without complaint.
Ox people, according to tradition, need peace and quiet to work through their ideas, and when they have set their mind on something it is hard for them to be convinced otherwise. An Ox person has a very logical mind and is extremely systematic in whatever they do, though they have a tremendous imagination and an unparalleled appreciation for beauty. These people speak little but are extremely intelligent. When necessary, they are articulate and eloquent.
Traditionally, people born under the influence of the Ox are thought to be kind, caring souls, logical, positive, filled with common sense and with their feet firmly planted on the ground. Security is their main preoccupation in life, and they are prepared to toil long and hard in order to provide a warm, comfortable and stable nest for themselves and their families. Strong-minded, stubborn, individualistic, the majority are highly intelligent individuals who don't take kindly to being told what to do.
The Ox, it is thought, works hard, patiently, and methodically, with original intelligence and reflective thought. These people enjoy helping others. Behind this tenacious, laboring, and self-sacrificing exterior lies an active mind.
The Ox, according to tradition, is not extravagant, and a modern interpretation of this is that the thought of living off credit cards or being in debt makes them nervous. The possibility of taking a serious risk could cause the Ox sleepless nights.
Ox people are truthful and sincere, and the idea of wheeling and dealing in a competitive world is distasteful to them. They are rarely driven by the prospect of financial gain. These people are always welcome in small gatherings because of their humble composure and reverent nature towards the host. They are reputed to be the most beautiful of face in the zodiac. They have many friends, who appreciate the fact that the Ox people are wary of new trends, although every now and then they can be encouraged to try something new. People born in the year of the Ox make wonderful parents and teachers of children.
It is important to remember that the Ox people are sociable and relaxed when they feel secure, but occasionally a dark cloud looms over such people and they engage all the trials of the whole world and seek solutions for them.

Here is a poem in honor of the passing year, and all of our absent friends...
A Prayer in Time of War
Thou, whose deep ways are in the sea,
Whose footsteps are not known,
To-night a world that turned from Thee
Is waiting at Thy Throne.
The towering Babels that we raised
Where scoffing sophists brawl,
The little Antichrists we praised
The night is on them all.
The fool hath said . . . The fool hath said.
And we, who deemed him wise,
We who believed that Thou wast dead,
How should we seek Thine eyes?
How should we seek to Thee for power
Who scorned Thee yesterday?
How should we kneel, in this dread hour?
Lord, teach us how to pray!
Grant us the single heart, once more,
That mocks no sacred thing,
The Sword of Truth our fathers wore
When Thou wast Lord and King.
Let darkness unto darkness tell
Our deep unspoken prayer,
For, while our souls in darkness dwell,
We know that Thou art there.
-Alfred Noyes

Cheers.
Chinese Mary
1 1/2 oz vodka
3 oz sweet and sour sauce
1 dash lemon juice
1/2 tsp Worcestershire sauce
3 drops soy sauce
3 drops Tabasco (or Crystal hot sauce)
1 pineapple slice
Make like a Bloody Mary, improvising with ingredients until you find your preferred taste and texture. Try adding extra vodka to thin out the sauce a little. When heated, this also makes a great sauce for food. Mmmmmm. Top Ramen.... garnish with pineapple.