At the Boots and Saddle with La Casa de Borghese and David Dust

This was one a ghostly warehouse - not anymore! My house is right behind the top left structure, barely seen here.

I live across the Hudson in a place formerly known as The Heights in Jersey City, which now has been christened with the more 'posh' moniker "The Cliff". It just reeks of trendy and tawdry, where gay men steal the straight husbands of unsuspecting, uber-religious yuppie wives who themselves may or may not have hidden, Sapphic inclinations; where one of them - let's call her Lydia Fromme, a young thirty-something Bright Young Thing from Schenectady, NY - has struck a friendship with the rather masculine Michele, a law enforcement officer riddled with tattoos and always seen in manly attire, who herself harbors a deep, deep secret.

The ex-boss - Grendel's mother, as I vanquish it

But before I go off topic, I have to say that last week was a week of tiny victories. I prevailed against the forces of evil - in this case, an ex-boss I affectionately call The Scylla, or Grendel's Mother (she's just . . . so humane and her heart is in the right place - in an assembly line in China), and made my mark against some naysayers who would love to see yours truly - Queer IV - sink like any boat in the Bermuda Triangle, never to be seen again. Yes, I was floating, floating, skipping down Ogden Avenue, feeling like Doris Day who was twirling her gold locks, singing into the air as she dashed off to have a tryst with her positively NOT homosexual husband, Rock Hudson, even if he was a little too close to his male friends. Even if he did say that they were just best friends, almost brothers, and men expressed brotherly love in ways that sometimes involved a little passionate wrestling with bulges in their pants. And who cares if Rock gave Randy a peck on the cheek? He loved me. He called me Eunice. My real name.

Anyway, great week, the bad suffered, and Queer IV reveled in her crazy and became more beautiful, as was her wont. And an opportunity for debauchery presented itself. A friend of mine - let's call her Sally - was in Hoboken and invited me to share a couple of drinks at the Texas Arizona. Of course, you don't have to prod me twice when alcohol is involved. I just love the thought of slurring my words and limping down the street, possibly falling face first on Court St. and drowning in a puddle of my own sick. So Sally and I met, we chatted, we almost made out! and then she -- like a lothariette accustomed to use and abuse her male slaves -- had to leave, to which I salivated and cried "No! I've discovered a limp stiffy inside my spam javelin! Please stay; do let's suck face." But no, she had to go and that was it and I was forlorn. Ugh. Some appointment in Morristown or something, Sally said. Or was it Montclair? Look, I live in Jersey; once you're across the Hudson, it's like being in a blur. I keep expecting to bump into Snooki and her very Chilean looks. If that 'guidette' is Italian, I'm from Norway and my name is Sven.

Don't snicker. I really am Norwegian. Oh, fuck it.

So on the heels of Sally departing, leaving me with but a taste of her boob in my mouth, I get a text from none other than David Dust stating

I'm at B & S with mistress maddie, come over! XOXOXOXO

Or something like that. My life is very impressionistic like that. If I say you were wearing a blue chambray shirt with brown khakis with Cole Haan shoes who cares if actually it was a red flannel work shirt with olive chinos and green Converse sneaks? In my mind what counts is what counts, and Cole Haan trumps Converse, anytime, so thank me. Ask Monet, or Degas, or all those lazy fuckers. They painted what they felt like. So I decide that what I 'see' is what is. Even if it isn't. Win-win, right? But of course.

Mistress Maddie has been checking my tiny blog out and supporting it for possibly a year now, post after post. I'm amazed at the fact that some of my posts have hit it off with Casa de Borghese because let's face it, there are like 5 trillion active blogs today - do I really think mine is special? So to meet someone who reads me on a general basis, who comments, that means pages. So off I took and was at Boots in no time. There we finally met, and it was a blast, although I was pleasantly soused and maybe slurring a little so my wit-o-meter was somewhat, like the subways, underground and muggy. Francisco the trusty go-go boy danced and showed us his tool, making the three of us girls drool as the booze rolled freely and they went to town, paying his homage, while I - the aloof one - texted his pictures to some of my girlfriends (who texted me back, hungrily - talk about women on the verge! and the language! Much to be desired. Tsk-tsk.).

However the affair ended a bit too soon, and off Maddie and David took to someplace else, and I wandered the streets of the Village in a lovely fog, winding up in a New Age store where I let myself get intoxicated with the aromas of patchouli, lemongrass, and frankincense. And came home to complete relaxation amongst Hitchcock and his eternal version of suspense.

So . . . how was your weekend?