And when I got back, the city and my street and my house and everything were right here where I'd left them. This sounds like an obvious statement, laughable even, until the alternative has happened to you. I am glad to know I can travel. This trip was very much a baby step but still scary, and I'm not planning to go jetting off on a regular basis, but at least I know it's possible.

Ah, but I do love Chicago. Apart from the food, which I believe to be as good as anywhere in the country, I never seem to hear anyone talk about what a beautiful, welcoming, walkable, generally user-friendly city it is. Obviously that changes some in the winters, which I have not yet dared since Neil says I would need special clothing to avoid death or at least severe frostbite.

I want to extend a special thank-you to Elyse Marshall, Neil's publicist at Harper Collins, who took the incredibly generous step of arranging to stay with Chicagoland friends so I could have her room for the night. She looked very much like most of the publicists I've had over the past several years -- young, female, and gorgeous -- but, unlike the majority of them, I know she must be better than competent or Neil wouldn't have her. In addition to the hotel room, Elyse, you have given me a shot of new hope for the publishing industry.

HOME. I have now traveled outside Louisiana/Mississippi and returned successfully with no deaths and only two panic attacks. On the second leg of my return flight, despite my having requested all aisle seats, I got a middle seat next to a young man with extreme B.O. I could just about take it when he was still, but I almost passed out any time he moved an arm. Luckily he slept through most of the flight. I'd nearly forgotten all the reasons I so love to fly.

It was a fun trip, though, even if it had its moments of trauma, and it was a good baby step for me. Thanks so much to Neil, The Fabulous Lorraine, and publicist Elyse Marshall for making it happen.

Well, I did it. I flew 927 miles from home, only really freaked out once, had a truly lovely dinner with Neil (more details later, or see his journal), and am now at O'Hare waiting to please God fly home. Before coming to the airport today, I had time to conduct an important taste test: half an Italian beef sandwich each at Mr. Beef and Portillo's. I'm sorry, Chicagoans; I know you think it's fast food, but Portillo's is about a million times better.

I'm at the gate posting on my iPhone. Nolagoraphobia fairly well controlled by -pams. The fuckers at security made me toss not just my $1 hairspray, which I didn't care about except now my hair will be all floppy at Alinea, but also my expensive tea rose perfume. Yep, I could have taken out the captain with that shit. Thank you, "terrists."

As of today, The Green Goddess officially has its liquor license! Swing by 307 Exchange Alley and have a Green Fuse, a Sultan's Dream, or one of their many other delicious specialty cocktails to celebrate. If you do not imbibe of the grain and the grape, they have lots of virgin cocktails too.

Me, I'm off to eat "transparency of raspberry and yogurt" and "black truffle explosion," along with twenty-one other tiny fabulous things.

Almost forgot in my post-CP excitement:

I HAVE A MONARCH CATERPILLAR ON MY MILKWEED!!!

He's tiny-tiny, less than a quarter-inch long, but you can see his little black, orange, and white bands as clear as anything.

Because I know I haven't been posting many photos lately (I'm still futzing around with new computer software/old camera software), here is a slightly blurry camera phone picture of me, Chris, Russell, and our dear, notorious friend Dale, a.k.a. Dr. Death, the mortician who helped me with so much hands-on research back in the day (Russell was Dale's date, and I'm very sorry I cannot remember his last name) at Commander's Palace last night. There was no special occasion, but as Dale says, it's always a special occasion when we get together, and he wanted to take us during his brief visit from his still-rebuilding home of Galveston, where he has been working constantly from the first wave of drowning victims to the recent surge of suicides similar to our post-federal-levee-failure one. Things got very gay indeed, but if Chris says a combination of champagne, other substances, and Dale's encouragement caused me to write any bad words such as, say, BUNGHOLE on him in permanent ink while he was passed out in his easy chair from his two cocktails after we got home, he is, of course, lying.



Please note that I am wearing my cocksucker suit, although you can't see it very well.

I'm sorry I am too lazy to write up the dinner, but it was exquisite. Chef Tory McPhail just gets better and better. theferrett, the Foie Gras du Monde with the coffee and beignets is more delectable than ever, if you can believe that.

Still no word on why Facebook disabled my account, and at this point I'm pretty much thinking fuck 'em. I enjoyed getting back in touch with a bunch of people there and meeting a bunch of new ones, but if they don't want me and my 2000 friends, I'll just become a Twit when I get back from Chicago.

So I had to stop taking the Vilify Abilify because it was screwing with my ability to read, or, more specifically, with my concentration on and enjoyment of reading. It would take me half an hour to get past the front page of the newspaper. I was skipping around between books, reading three or four at once, which I almost never do and don't like. I've been worried about this apparently atypical side effect since I first noticed it on June 25, but it came to a head on Sunday when I tested myself by thinking about the new Stephen King book and felt about as much excitement as if I were thinking about a block of wood. Clearly this was not acceptable. I quit taking it the next day. According to my doctor, the drug's half-life means it should clear my system in about a month. I can't wait, because I hate this.

Other than that, I'd say it only worked OK. I think it made me a little speedy. It improved my mood, but conversely, it also gave me a craving for -pams. I don't know how that worked. I don't mean to sound like a Special Flower, but my reactions to medication are not always typical; I was apparently one of three people in the world who didn't experience those very unpleasant-sounding "brain zaps" when I went off Cymbalta for five weeks. Perhaps it confirms the prevailing theory that your correspondent does not, in fact, have a brain.

Just to clarify: It's not the flying I'm scared of. Commercial flying is an intensely unpleasant experience because the airlines and TSA make it so, but I don't find it scary. It's the idea of being away from New Orleans in a place where I can't hop in my car and drive back in a couple of hours. It's the memories of the big electronic signs on the I-10 that read NEW ORLEANS: CITY CLOSED. It's the fact that outside the city limits, the true heart of darkness begins.

A few years ago now, I made a bet with Neil that I could build him a helicopter that wouldn't crash. I lost. Thankfully, Neil survived the disaster, and ever since then I have owed him dinner at Alinea. It turns out that he will be at some big book thing (American Library Association? I think that might be it) in Chicago this weekend, and I'm not busy, so I am flying to Chicago to pay off my bet. I'm greatly looking forward to seeing Neil and eating at Alinea again, but aside from that other little trip to Chicago when we were still in post-K exile, just to see civilization again, this will be my first trip outside Louisiana/Mississippi since 2005. I'm certain I'll have a good time once I get there, but I'm also certain that the only thing that will compel me to get on that plane will be the thought of my dear friend's disappointment if I don't show up. Scared. I'm really doing it and I am flat-out dead-eye Jesus-praying scared, even though I'm only staying overnight. Oh well, it will be good practice for the Amsterdam trip in November ...

(By the way, anyone who wants to see an actual display of courage, as opposed to my whining about a four-hour jaunt, should go to Alinea's press page and read the second story from the top, "Burned" from Chicago Magazine. It's a grueling and fascinating account of 33-year-old Chef Grant Achatz's battle with stage 4 cancer of the tongue, of all things, his insistence on individualized treatment, how the experience has changed his already complex food theories, and his journey back to taste, which is still in progress. May God and all the saints bless him.)

I am turning into such a fucking hippie. I just signed up for the local paid recycling plan, since Nagin's wonderful recovery plan for the city hasn't managed to include the resumption of curbside recycling in nearly four years, and I bought a copy of Mother Earth News today. Well, dammit, I want a decent gardening magazine, and most of the ones on the market seem geared toward either morons (three different stories on How To Water) or yuppies more interested in landscaping than gardening per se (Planning Your Perfect Pergola). Not all that impressed with Mother Earth so far either, though. Any suggestions, txtriffidranch?

I've been composting for several weeks now in one of those big black plastic bins designed especially for the purpose. It's fun (and compulsive, as I scour the kitchen and yard for compostables that might be going to waste). When I was about 12, my mom had an open compost pile that was always full of these segmented maggoty-looking things that disgusted me to the point of fascination. I'd stare at them and think, "What if you had to stick your hand in there?" Now they are present in large numbers in my own compost pile, and I learned that they are soldier fly larvae (I don't advise clicking that link if you dislike squirmy things), which are not only harmless but such excellent composters that they sometimes drive earthworms right out of the pile. And now I can stick my hand in there, not just without fear, but without even being particularly grossed out. After all, they work for me.

They're also said to make excellent bait, should I ever wish to take up my short-lived fishing habit again, but that seems pretty cold-blooded: "Here, turn my kitchen and garden waste into compost. Thanks! Now I'm going to reward you by sticking a hook through your body and feeding you to a speckled trout!" Ah well; specks probably wouldn't hit them anyway, and ain't nuttin worth eatin but trout.

[ETA: The adult soldier fly is a predator and gardener's ally, so this is an excellent bug all around.]

My latest gardening project is a small, shady grove at the back of the yard -- near the giant tiki head, if you remember the geography from my Flickr photo sets -- whose entrance will be marked by banana trees and Carara ginger. (Yes, I know these plants need sun, and will get it -- they'll be providing part of the shade, that which isn't already provided by the scrubby trees and brush I've left covering the rear quarter of the yard as bird habitat.) I cleared and mulched the whole area, planted asparagus ferns, and arranged lots of container plants -- mostly bromeliads, as well as one tiny jade tree I hope will grow mighty.

The only frustrating thing is that this all happened too fast. I got the idea a few weeks ago and figured I could begin implementing it gradually and lazily, as befits summer gardening. Then I realized I had better go ahead and get those banana trees and gingers in the ground if I wanted them to get a really good head start before winter. I had a burst of energy this week despite pretty bad sciatica, and now, before I know it, the project is practically done. Of course I can keep adding details forever -- I have a broken granite pot that begs for some creeping herb or other, and an empty bracket for a hanging basket, and lots of fence space for art, and eventually I dream of having a stone bench -- but overall it was not the leisurely project I thought it would be. I've always had trouble not throwing myself into things.

[Please note: Because my Assbook is still out of commission and I've kinda gotten used to the witty repartee we enjoyed there, I have temporarily opened this journal to comments from friends. Sorry, I know I have a lot of friends reading who aren't LJ "friends," but I don't feel like dealing with trolls and anyway you can still comment on prime_liquor or one of my other groups. I don't have e-mail notification for comments, so don't go commenting on old entries and expect me to see it. Caveat emptor. Quid pro quo. My name has been Kevin; please enjoy your meal.]

My Facebook account has been disabled, and I have no idea why. Is there something wrong with the site, or do I just suck so bad that even Facebook doesn't want me? My last status update was, " ... is worried about my hypothalamus. If my brain is worrying about my brain, does that make me meta?" I don't think that violates any FB TOS ...

(Actually, come to think of it, my Amazon Connect page recently disappeared too. I didn't care enough at the the time to try to find out why, but this is clearly a conspiracy!)

PZB: ...blah blah blah blah blah Stephanie Meyer.

CdB: Uh-huh.

PZB: You don't know who that is, do you?

CdB: Who?

PZB: Twilight?

CdB: What?

PZB: Edward?

CdB: Who?

PZB: Sparkly?

CdB: Huh?

PZB: You don't have any idea at all what I'm talking about?

CdB: No.

PZB: Oh, I love you. I love you so much. You are the most wonderful man in the world.

Just wanted to mention that Chris is doing something really cool at the Green Goddess for the Independence Day of the Colonialist Power (a.k.a. the 4th of July): they've rented the penthouse apartment on the fourth floor of their building and will be serving a Persian buffet in honor of the people's struggle for independence in Iran. As Chris points out in his entry, "This will be a private RSVP party, and the only way to find out how to attend, with a lush Persian banquet, a clear view of the fireworks display on the Mississippi River during the night of Independence Day, and a preview of a few of our creative cocktails soon to be available at The Green Goddess, only happens if you get an email invitation from us. The only way to score an invitation is to ask me for one on our website email listing for your chef correspondent." Or you can just call for reservations at (504) 301-3347. There's a reason he is being all 007 about this, but I'm not allowed to say it here.

He will also be running a Persian tasting menu all this week and probably next week too. Here's the drool-inducing part of the post:

Our 4th of July Tasting Menu, to Persia and her people,
Let us remember their courage this Summer 2009

Chilled Cucumber Soup (for Rumi)
Blended with Yogurt and Sumac,
Finished with “Snow” from Lemon Balm,
Crenshaw Melon, & Pimm’s #1 $8

Shamsi’s Refreshment
Watermelon Juice, Izze Sparkling Pomegranate & a Big Sour Cherry Ice Cube $8

A Fragrant Slice of Koukouye,
A Persian Frittata redolent with herbs, &
Homemade Havashu Naan Flatbread $9

A Pair of Stuffed Vegetables
Eggplant filled with Roasted Red Peppers and Pomegranate,
Swiss Chard Dolma filled with Zeresk Pilaf of Barberries, Basmati Rice,
Saffron, Ivory Lentils, Pistachios, and Black Lemon $15

Peach-Passion Fruit Tea with Green Cardamom $4

Oasis Sweetmeat
Medjool Date stuffed with Rose-Scented Almond Filling $8

Pistachio Gelato in a “Nest”
Shredded Phyllo, Orange Blossom Water,
Saffron, & Candied Yuzu Peel $9

Tasting Menu $54 (including drink pairings)

Last night I had occasion to send "Enough Rope" to a gay couple from my OLGC rosary group. Rereading the essay, thinking about it and my other, somewhat less serious gender essay "Cocksucker Suit" (published in Greg Herren & Paul Willis' anthology Love, Bourbon Street), I came to a realization that I hadn't ever really admitted to myself before:

I like wearing dresses.

Mentally and emotionally I identify as male and always will, but the older I get, the more fluid my feelings on gender seem to become. It makes me happy that terms like "genderqueer" are used in casual online conversation. It makes me realize that when I put on a nice dress and shoes, fix my sacrum-length hair, and generally get all done up, it doesn't make me feel female; it just makes me feel sharp, the same way I feel when I wear my cockseersucker suit and Stacy Adams boys' alligator loafers. I don't wear much makeup, but I do like me some jewelry. Most of the time my style of dress resembles supergee's timeless description of his own fashion sense -- "garish and slovenly" -- but when I want to look nice, I don't care what gender my clothes are. I did for a while in 2004 and 2005, going through a phase where I wasn't at all comfortable wearing women's clothes or jewelry, but then in '05 there was this certain little event, and after that I found that I had bigger things to worry about than whether wearing a dress made me less manly. And everybody knows that most men in New Orleans, gay or straight, have at least one dress in their closet anyway.

For nearly two years I could not look at my Authors Guild bulletins at all, and would throw them in the trash as soon as they came. Now their headlines grow increasingly desperate (Spring 2009 issue: "Can This Industry be Saved?"; "The Future of Publishing"; "Keeping Calm in Changing Times" ... ), and I have to confess that I enjoy little thrills of schadenfreude as I flip through it. Not about the misfortunes of writers; I could never enjoy the fact that writers and books have fallen on hard times, but when I think of the incompetent 22-year-old assistant editors and publicists crying because they've lost their benefits package, I must admit I come a little more alive inside.

(From the "Along Publishers Row" column -- and please note that all the Guild's missing apostrophes are sic:

A cartoon by David Sipress in The New Yorker shows a smiling editor behind her desk. Across from her, an author looks shocked as the editor says, "We'd like to publish it, do nothing to promote it, and watch it disappear from the shelves in less than a month.")

Ah, kiddies, I am a bitter old publishing buzzard for sure.

An ice cream truck just went by playing the theme from The Godfather. That is so wrong, yet so New Orleans.

Here's a true one-of-a-kind item: a hand-written piece of perversion by yours truly!

Auction description:

In 1989, Ian McDowell (MORDRED'S CURSE, MERLIN'S GIFT, "Geraldine" in Poppy Z. Brite's LOVE IN VEIN) wrote CRAZY CREATIVE WRITING: STORY STARTERS AND WORD BANKS, a reproducable workbook for teachers of grades 1-4, which was published in 1995 by Carson-Dellosa, an educational pubilshing company based in Greensboro, NC. The book consisted of 30 "Story Starters" -- that is, the first paragraphs of stories, such as "Donna was in her room, playing a game on her computer. Suddenly, a big fat toad hopped out from under the bed and jumped on the monitor. "Give me a kiss, Cute Stuff," it said. "I'm a prince." The reader was then instructed to WRITE WHAT HAPPENED NEXT on the ruled lines following the first paragraph, and use as many words as possible from the provided "Word Bank" while doing so. Each Story Starter was accompanied by an illustration and 12-16 blank lines on which to write, as well as the aforementioned Word Bank.

I'm Ian and will stop talking about myself in the third person now. In the later 90s, I started pestering various professional writer friends to complete a page in one of my contributor's copies of this book. Quite a few complied. NEIL GAIMAN took the story of the Frog Prince described above. POPPY Z. BRITE took the story of Abe, the boy who'd always wanted to join the army, in a VERY perverse direction. Caitlin R. Kiernan wrote a lovely mini-story about Hannah, who woke up one day to find she'd turned into a horrible monster. Kelly Link wrote about Julia and her rapidly expanding cat, turning it into a mini-epic. Other contributors included Mehitobel Wilson, Phillip Nutman, Rain Graves, and Rachel Manija Brown.

The stories are short, but they're original pieces of fiction which will never be published anywhere (I'm pretty sure they can't be, as the begining of each story, the part I wrote, was Work-for-Hire and presumably still owned by Carson-Dellosa, who would not be pleased with the decidedly adult direction some of these authors took the material). Neil Gaiman's, for instance, is 150 words long, and like most of the other contributions, imaginative and laugh-out-loud funny. Each contribution is in the author's own hand writing. You can't have a more limited edition, or a more unique collectable (and yes, I know "more unique" is a barbarism) than this.

Here's a link to the item, which unfortunately isn't mine because it should sell for a mint! Ian's a pal, though, and this really is a nifty thing, so I thought I'd mention it.