God's Turban and Tutu

It has been pointed out to me on more than one occasion that the proud stalk of this formerly prim and proper blog has sprouted a rather lubricious leaf of late; the debauched botanical result, no doubt, of impure and corrupted hothouse, red-light photosynthesis.

In my defense, as a word-gardener of once spotless character, may I say that it must surely be the heady of atmosphere of seasonal festivities and their attendent temptations that has brought me low.

If only I stayed true to the healthy regimen of book readings and art gallery tours prescribed to me by my friends at The New Criterion, then perhaps I should not be the pitifully depraved creature you observe crawling along the internet gutter before you.

Indeed, one of the advantages of being a Friend of the New Criterion (cheap yearly out-of-towner rates) is the number of invitations from that elegant group which obscure the other objects on my mantlepiece each week. Between the book signings, important lectures, gallery openings, and other cultural events, it is a great wonder that I have anytime left at all for my more nefarious activities! But then, you see, all these improving extravanganzas seem to occur in New York, and, since I live in Boston, and will only travel long distances if, when making the required journey, I can be assured of a level of luxurious, pampered comfort that would turn VIP first-class passengers on the Orient Express greener than an extremely envious greenfly, I never seem to show up to any of them, including the New Criterion/Armavirumque holiday party.

And so here I am, forced to wallow abjectly - louche et boheme - in the sordid boudoir my own blogged lubricity. My sincere apologies to all who expect higher purpose from me.

Comments

[Mrs. Peperium]

Hey, whatever we might be we weren't the ones shown the door ahead of the deadbeats and flunkies at Fitz'. Have you ever heard of a bar in a blue state that preferred a clientele of knuckle-draggers over Ivy League-educated men and women? There must be something more to this story and I bet involves seersucker and clogs.

[stephenesque]

Most bars prefer knuckle draggers, this is why it is wise to drink at hotels.

[Mrs. Peperium]

The Fitzer's should move over to Peacock Alley at the Waldorf. They make very good Sidecars. The piano is one of Cole Porter's old ones or atleast it used to be.