Thursday and Friday were social washes, I know that much. I got some brie and strawberries at Rouse’s and ate them for lunch, worked on and off.
Amzie came over in the afternoon with the Bayou St. John painting, which looks fabulous over the couch. I forgot to bring my home checkbook and wrote him a check on my Hancock bank account in a panic, not sure whether I had the money. Still haven’t heard from him, so I guess it went through, but I’ll call before I leave. Picture to come, if I can get this gizmo working again. I killed my iPhoto, somehow.
Couldn’t find anyone free on Thursday so I went back to the Golden Lantern and hung with the boys. I walk by on my way for the papers as they open up and say hi to Josh most mornings, then come in after 2 when Jimmy’s there. He’s young and studly in a Midwestern football-hero fantasy way and the gays adore him. He drinks milk and chocolate milk all day; they must be swooning in their seats. But he holds his own among the queenery.
One regular was having a birthday party and there was a ton of food in the back room. I tried to put a drink for him on my tab but Jimmy said he’d have more than enough friends buying him drinks.
So I sloped off home and forgot to tape “Project Runway” again.
Friday was more of the same. A pot of peppermint tea, a banana, crossaint from Croissant D’Or, the papers, work and a pretty miserable night. I went to the bank to check on my funds and called Tom from Jackson Square. Saw James on the street as I left the park and said hi and kept walking—he was grabbing a camera out of the hands of a member of a group who had just disembarked and was taking their picture so no one had to be left out of it—and he barked “Up!” Wow, just …
I mouthed “Up?” and said he’d give me a call later and was busy and I nodded and tried to leave and he barked at me again to wait and said he was on the clock and I’m like, dude, I’m going to Sidney’s. I’m not trying to talk to you. Also not your fucking mule, Napoleon.
The weather was clearing up—it had been quite cold and cloudy—and Brett had returned from one of his many, many trips. So I met him at Marigny Brasserie and we sat outside over prosecco, catching up. His girlfriend came by, as did three or four friends, and it turned out to be a very jolly evening after all. Brett and the girl were off to dinner at One and then to the Drive-By Truckers show, so we split up around 9:30 and I went home and fell asleep reading “Madame Vieux Carre.”
