Here’s the idea. Get James St. James, who wrote the book on going out, to go out and then come back and write about it for the blog. After all, he has to come to work anyway, right? After carousing and debauching all weekend, he won’t have to call in sick, he can crawl in sick. It’s all so nurturing somehow. But of course he had to whine like a little girl first. Then he turns in this.
When The Powers That Be suggested I do a weekly recap of my weekends for the blog, I balked at the idea. Balked.
“But I’m so boring!” I wailed, “I never do ANYTHING. I’m a spinster.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, James.” Fenton said, in that way that he has “I’m sure that your life is just one drug-fueled orgy after another.” And we all laughed.
I do have a rather racy image. If I’m not gallivanting with killers or shooting up some fabulous new narcotic, I must be officiating at orgies in my rhinestone dungeon. Nothing could be further than the truth. I live a simple life. Practically Amish. I was so worried, in fact, that I would have nothing to write about that I gave myself three pimples (STOP LOOKING).
That’s why it’s so funny when I accidentally went out Friday night, and LO AND BEHOLD ended up at an actual DRUG FUELED ORGY. Yes! An honest-to-God, full-on, balls-to-the-wall ORGY.
And I’m a bit of a prude. Don’t give me that look. It’s true. I’m what they call in the porno biz a spoiler. I can clear out a sex club faster than Ed Asner (they say the resemblance is uncanny).
At after-hours parties, when things get sexy, I’m usually sent off on some emergency (“Oh my God, we’re out of nutmeg! JAMES HURRY!”), and then the locks are changed.
Maybe it’s because I tend to shriek “FABULOUS” at inappropriate times. And sing show tunes, loudly. Maybe it’s because I’m usually dressed like Carol Channing (or Ed Asner in Carol Channing drag if you want to get snippy.)
Whatever.
