In Which We Go Traveling

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I celebrated the recent ninth anniversary of this blog by not blogging anything.  It’s a little trick I’m quite fond of.

Instead, Secret Agent Fred and I took off for Seattle.  Diane von Austinburg was going to be there for a conference and we decided a train trip up there would be amusing. We were wrong.

The trip, which is an hour and a half by plane, was 24 hours long.  By the last two hours, we were huddled whimpering in our roomette.  At one point, we wound up in some snack car that claimed to have a bar.  The bartender refused to sell me a club soda, something about it “wasn’t on the cash register.” So I demanded a bourbon and soda, hold the bourbon.  The bartender asked Fred “Is he the one that always wins the arguments?”  Yes, yes I am.  Now give me my fucking club soda.

Seattle itself was pretty and boring.  It always is.  I lived there in the late 70’s and literally left because I thought it was just too dull.  It was nice to hang with Diane, although I spent so much time in my very nice hotel room sleeping, we didn’t get together much.  She recently emailed to apologize about something or the other.  I don’t know what she was talking about, but when people want to beg forgiveness for something I don’t remember (which happens more than you might think; I’m not very good at paying attention,) my policy is to accept graciously, with my lips slightly pursed, as if to imply that I’d rather not discuss The Unpleasant Incident.  What the hell?  Whatever they’ve done, or think they’ve done, I’m sure I’ve dished out worse, so let’s just call it even and move on and let me forget something more important.

Such as the bar Fred and I went to one night.  It was in a very schwanky hotel and yet it was the darkest bar I’ve ever been in where there wasn’t actual sodomy going on somewhere close at hand.  Also surprising: the metal covered trunk being used as a table at our seats had a drawer which, when opened, revealed blood along its lip.  And not just a little blood.  Think serial killer evidence.

trunk

So am I ever leaving San Francisco again?  Nope.  Never.  If there’s some funeral you’d like me to attend, you’ll need to have it delivered here.

About mrpeenee

A former bon vivant and terror of a number of New Orleans bars in the mad, gay 1980s, I'm now quietly retired and widowed in San Francisco. I have a crooked nose due to an unfortunate Frisbee accident.

13 responses »

  1. Well, doesn’t that sound Iike a little love of a summer minibreak? As it happens, I have one on hand this weekend as well – and it does in fact include a funeral. I can’t tell you how I wish I could foist it off on you, or at least move it to somewhere tolerable like Your Fair City…

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  2. i have also taken the train from SF to seattle.

    i opened the door to my cubby hole & mere inches from me was an old, bony hag, swathed in her skimpiest peignoir, posed in the “doorway” of her cubby hole sending me her best, “you know you want it.”

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  3. Dear god, Fred and I should have made good on our threat to blog in your stead! I don’t understand how sleeping in Seattle is more boring than sleeping in San Francisco. (Though I do like your house in San Francisco much more than I liked my Seattle hotel.)

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