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.