A direct quote and quite a correct one. Diane von Austinburg visited us last week and we had a lovely time eating our way through San Francisco. One of the great things about living in a really rich city is all the great restaurants here. Rich guys just love to shovel in the fancy grub. We even cooked one night, and by “cooked” I mean we boiled water for ravioli and microwaved red sauce from the farmers’ market.
Also, most of the rug bonanza I had set off earlier came home to roost as they pretty much all got delivered right before Diane got here. I had the brilliant idea of waiting until she was settled in before I unrolled them so she could thrill in the reveal. Lots of ta-dahs going on, because they were gorgeous beyond my wildest fantasy. Diane was quite taken by them and once again agreed that I was a genius. So perceptive, don’t you think?
And it was brilliant, right up to the point where I fucked up my back by moving furniture and carpets around. Ouch. So I spent most of the first few days of her visit crippled in bed. Plus the fabulous fuschia rug in my room was so dusty, it choked me and I had to remove my bed to the living room where Diane tiptoed around me. So very fabulous for your visiting guest. Anyway, my insane rug cleaner brought back a bunch of rugs I had had washed before Diane got here and took off the new dirty ones and then gave me a fabulous great big one. One of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. Obvisouly it pays to be a good customer.
Poor Diane, she loves the cool, foggy we are so famous for, but she so often winds up here during our rare hot spells. Sure enough. the whole time she was with me, the weather looked like some kind of commercial for California tourism: brilliant, clear blue skies and hot, hot sun. I tired hard to assume some kind of Zen lizard state of mind and bask in it, but it wasn’t working. Diane, who had left Texas to get away from that very thing, was not happy. Poor Diane.
Of course today, two days after she left, we are socked in with dense fog and the temperature has plummeted lower than the sturdiest Texas air conditioner could pump out. Irony, it’s what’s for dinner.
Fat dicks for Mikey: