Turns out I vacation so I can take naps in beds other than my own. Secret Agent Fred and I took the train down to Los Angeles and I spent almost the entire 11 hour trip asleep. Nothing is as lulling as the rolling rhythm of a train and there’s really nothing else to do, anyway.
The L.A. tain station is gorgeous
We stayed in the Biltmore downtown, where the lobby and other public spaces were also pretty spectacular, with all the original, elaborate details intact,
but our shabby rooms upstairs were like being confined in an old folks home designed by somebody who had seen The Shining once too often, complete with fluorescent lights and dingy yellowing paint. We fled to a tonier hotel I like in West Hollywood, so I could sleep in a nice place and so we could be closer to the gogo boys of Santa Monica Boulevard.
The car rental place stuck us with a white Chevy Impala, the Car of Shame. The poor clerk handling the exchange was trying to be pleasant, he was pretty cute, and acknowledged this was not exactly the Batmobile, but I was overcome by some kind of gay Tourette Syndrome where I couldn’t help blurting out bitchy snark. I am ashamed, but it’s true, we did look like we could be busting hookers in Hollywood. Did I just imagine the valet parkers sniggering as we pulled up? Maybe, but this was L.A. after all, where you are what you roll.
Speaking of muscular semi-naked guys dancing to Madonna, we had a lovely evening out at some bar that I swear is a time warp to 1990.
The strippers were terribly cute and Fred has a way with them, they’re drawn to him like he’s a puppy with a fistful of singles.
Tragically, I now find out we missed the 2013 GoGo Boy Appreciation Day Festival and Competition by a few weeks. Count me in for next year’s. I’ll see you there.