This week has been a veritable flurry of
social obligations and events- I’m beginning
to feel like a goddamn debutante, much against my will.
It probably seems like life down here
in the genteel South is nothin’ but
a bunch of garden parties and parades,
and well- maybe that’s not so far from the truth..

There was the Weddink,
which was actually very lovely,
though I had predisposed myself to be sour-
as I don’t hold any stock in that infernal institution.
This one was held in a small slice of hidden paradise,
and was basically like walking
onto the set of an Almodovar film:

The music was excellent, provided by
these dapper gents, Luke and Cosmo
and also by the rambunctious and wonderful
Ta Mere Toujours:

Johnny and June, happily hitched-
heading off on handlebars for their
hallowed honeymoon..

Tomorrow it’s another goddamn garden party,
this one held at my old abode, you know-
the horribly haunted one- what gives?
And a big Vodoun ceremony, which I am
looking very much forward to..
Sunday, I have off and we’re going to…
THE ANGOLA PRISON RODEO!
Yeeeee-haw!

Last night I found myself in a truly peculiar situation-
reading the fortunes of business-types from Paducah
in a fluorescently lit pedestrian hotel lobby.
It was worth the money, and the canapes- I suppose,
but man, oh man–  it’s a strange thing, to delve
into the psyches of such narrow-minded folk.
Especially when they’re just expecting a bit
of hocus-pocus and gypsy entertainment.
Which I can provide- but I just couldn’t bring
myself to go through with plans to give them
a show, with marked cards and cold-reading and all.
I take what I do seriously, and I feel that to
fake it for the mere amusement of others
would lessen what small gift I have.
So I gave them brief and accurate readings,
and smiled and chatted and held the hands
of suburban housewives who found
themselves weeping unexpectedly.
  Luckily, I was plied heavily with scotch-
but got dragged reluctantly to the
“Polo Lounge” in the Windsor Court,
of all the unlikely, ridiculous places..
  Rag-tag me in the tow of these two awful
fraudulent old bags, skittering in their
pointy heels over the marble and mica flecked
floors- scuttling into thick plush carpets
under the watchful gaze of the Romanovs.
 Ugly wallpaper in elegant powder-rooms.
More scotch and listening to their drunken
name and namebrand dropping,
so insistent on haranguing the professionally
charming barkeeps, to whom I kept composing
notes in my head, praising them for being
such utter bastions of patience and putting up
constantly with all these revolting people.
Same goes for the poor cabdriver,
who kept saying, “Yes ma’am!” in reply
to Old Bag Numero Uno’s vehement proclamations:
“Ahhhhm jus’ a whine-o..
Ahhhhhm a real fahhhh-king cunt!”
 Well, lady- I couldn’t agree with you more.
Good god. I tore out of there as fast as I could-
leaping upon my bicycle all the while declining their
offers of more scotch, tacky Chanel suits
and elective surgery. No fahhh-king way, ladies.

Flee!