I took myself over to visit my mother tonight, to have dinner and take her on her errands. Knowing about my impending trip, she insisted upon gifting me with the following:
1. Her "Club 55" hand mirror (free promotional gift for special "senior citizen valued casino customers") in case "your contact comes out on the plane."
2. Her vintage 1978 vinyl American Tourister tag, complete with her address neatly typed out by manual typewriter.
3. A lock and key. ("People steal, you know!")
4. A miniature flashlight (a freebie from her mail order prescription program).
("Just in case the power goes out in the hotel. Be careful out there! Keep your eyes open for earthquakes, you hear me?" )
5. 50 dollars...in cash...small bills ("just to be safe."), which I refused.
I tried my damnedest to refuse that flashlight too, but she just wasn't having that. She grew even more adamant and, well, there's just no winning with your mother. You'd think I'd know that by now. Oh, and she didn't much appreciate my laughing at her "if the power goes out in the hotel" comment either. But I couldn't help it.
This coming weekend, if all goes well, I'll be in San Francisco. Yeay!
I've never been out to California in my life...or any further west than NM.
A few months ago Michael had mentioned going, with his friends one of whom is a doctor. She's going to some big convention, so her husband invited Michael and a few others, and Michael invited me. I've long wanted to visit out there, but never have had the courage to go alone. I know, I know, but I'm lame like that. I can't help it.
Anyway, it's not really convenient in any sense of the word, but after my near death experience a few weeks ago, I'm determined to do some things I've never done before, goddammit.
That sounds more melodramatic than it should, but it's still kind of true.
Anyway, I'm trying not to think about the flight (part of which will be by small plane) and focus on the good parts.
I have a real tendency to work myself into a panic. I'm not that comfortable with flying to begin with. I'm one of the few people who have personally known at least two people who died in fiery airplane crashes. I mean really, what are the odds?
Michael called a few days ago, letting me know about the group's itinerary and asking what I'd like to do. Unfortunately, we'll only be in SF for two days, barely enough time for anything. Unlike NY, which was fraught with decades worth of pop cultural importance put upon it by me, I don't have much of a connection or knowledge of SF.
What do I know? hmmmm....well, the hippies and beatniks of course...
but I was told that the Haight Ashbury area is "like Bourbon St." now, so to "avoid" it.... oh, and Chinatown....and oh, and that bridge thing up there.
But that's pretty much all.
Actually not having much to want to see is kind of nice. It frees things up. I like not having a plan...at least in theory.
Michael's put me on the task of finding some place where we can hear vintage disco...a task I have been negligent in. I need to get crackin on that.
Meanwhile, I'm trying to figure out what to wear. I'm woefully unprepared for such a trip. I'm thinking a fedora and a cape.
My only certain plan is to recreate the "Phyllis" opening montage as best I can.
9:00 a.m. Got up early and made vegetable soup a la my paternal grandmother...sort of a white trash vegan recipe. Bones don't count as meat, do they? (insert joke here)
11:00 a.m.
Made the circuit of all the thrift stores, but didn't buy a thing. I was, however, awfully tempted to buy the "Arthur Murray Dance Championship: Nassau Bahamas November 2-3, 1966" trophies belonging to one Mrs. Krantz. There were two. (Did she dance with herself? )
2:00 p.m. Went to Target (but you knew that already, right?) and bought five dollars worth of things I don't have any use for:
Too queer for words, but what the hell. The dragons are actually pens. So now if ever I want to, I can pretend to be a geisha madame, checking off the roll. Ok, so maybe more like "when", not "if" Anyway, now I have the props.
4:00 p.m. Came home and got a letter
7:00 p.m. Went with Dennis and one of his friends to a Pho place in the Faubourg Marigny. The hipsters are trying to make Pho now. What's this world come to?
Actually, it wasn't too bad.
9:00 p.m.
Ended up at some bar (where we last saw Charles Manson at the video poker machines), eating cupcakes and drinking free shots, procured by the shameless flirtations of Dennis's friend by way of the very friendly bartender, "a Pentecostal boy"
10:00 p.m. Stayed until the drag show with what seemed like all depressing songs: "Stand By Your Man", "I Will Always Love You", and this:
which...well, always makes me tear up a bit, because...well, never mind. ahem
Btw, why are we constantly subjected to this Gaga person when Róisín languishes in..um...Ireland or whatever. That's what I want to know. Never mind, perhaps it's for the best.
Last night was the third meeting of the bookclub I joined a few months ago. It also was my turn to "lead". The book I'd chosen was Peter Cameron's Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You.
I hadn't read it before, but the reviews were good, so I figured this would be a good way to force myself to read it. It did.
I loved it. You should read it too, you know, if you like that kind of thing.
My fellow bookclubbers, however, didn't. They didn't like the protagonist because he's kind of a snarky loner.
Of course, I take this as a personal affront. How can I not?
It also doesn't have a neat tidy happy ending...or a clear cut moral. The first book we read was The Alchemist, which everyone loved. (wtf?)
I hated it, but at least I had the politeness to keep that to myself.
Anyway, not everyone hated it....but enough. I don't know. I did manage to get some good provocative discussion out of the book, however, so that was good.
So who was there, you ask? Oh, you didn't? Tough, I'm going to tell you anyway .
Actually as I'm sitting here I realize that I could easily simply edit an earlier post about another group of gay men. ...ok about every group of gay men.
Me (seeing a commercial for The History Channel's "Swamp People" on my mother's tv:
"Hey, look at that. That must be around here."
My mother:
"Oh yeah, That. I watched it one day and saw Ti Paul's grandson. You know, they some of my cousins. third? second? I dunno ahem. They make them look even more couillion than they are, and that ain't easy."
The brother of this tie, (last seen in 1988). Hanging above a very large white floppy stripper's very large white floppy penis. Tie and penis were both "dancing" on the bar at Good Friends.
I opened my mailbox this morning to get lovely surprise:
It took me a while to realize what it was. It's an elephant hair bracelet, from Africa. It's made of the "naturally shed" tail hair of an elephant ("no elephants were harmed in the making of this bracelet," the little mimeographed note wants me to be sure. Somehow I suspect that's because it's from a giraffe or a mule or maybe the "naturally shed" weave of that tranny on St. Ann, but anyway) It is real hair of something, that I can tell. Don't look a gift elephant in its ass I say.
On the back of the note, written in red ink is a little note from whomever shipped it to me, thanking me and telling me to be careful when adjusting it and to wash it in shampoo)
I'd sent some money to some children's charity in Africa a few months ago, and this was their thank you.
I don't know if it's unisex, I think it is...but I'm going to wear it anyway. I like it. Of course, someone will inevitably make a comment about it being "faggy" to wear a bracelet, (as happened to a friend of mine a while back, and I don't even mean in high school!) but screw it, I like it.
It's supposed to "bring luck and love" Even if it is possibly fake, I'll take fake luck and love, if that's all I can get.
