I am Ashamed. Sort Of.

The ever urbane Muscato from Cafe Muscato describes an afternoon swanning about Vienna and then asks what the rest of us lesser mortals did lately for amusement.  I bought a suede coat and a pair of giant blue and white porcelain vases; got trapped in a clusterfuck of traffic because of this World Series thing here for an hour and a half and then leaned out of my car window and spat on a limo that was causing a bottleneck on the only escape route out of downtown San Francisco.

Even as I let loose, I wondered who on earth I had become.  I may have launched originally from Texas, but I’ve been a Lady for years now.  Nevertheless, the limo’s passenger’s look of horror was immensely gratifying.

I may have been watching a little too much American Horror Story lately.

https://youtube.googleapis.com/v/hzFCROrvS0A&source=uds

Cause If They Don’t Dance, Then They’re No Friend of Mine

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.

Traffic Report

I write this in the most hushed tones and from a location that must remain secret for there are Forces out to kill me.  Kill me, I tell you.

Every time I’ve left the house this week, I’ve had to deal with drivers who were obviously bent on taking me out, assassins of the road.  Or maybe assholes of the road, same thing, really.

Are they on drugs?  Possibly, although, I personally have driven when I was so loaded I thought my hands were robot powered spiders and done better than these goons.  Are they zombies?  Their lurching progress implies so.  Are they zombies on drugs?  Again, maybe.

Secret Agent Fred and I were attempting to flee the Castro yesterday when we were blocked by a minivan more than double parked.  Sitting athwart 18th Street, it was more like triple parked, or at least 2.5 parked.  It’s possible the excess bumper stickers plastered on it had finally gotten to the driver.  Or “driver,” I should say.  It was less like an effort at parking and more like someone simply abandoning his car.

And today after piloting around other cars that made the streets a fucking slalom course, I was trapped by two drivers in a fight, possibly to the death, over a parking place.  San Francisco is a tiny place and parking is a premium, but even with my longtime experience, I was impressed.  The two cars (one was a minivan again.  That’s always a bad sign, I think.) were both sort of partially wedged into one spot while their drivers got out to better scream at each other.  I couldn’t get past, I couldn’t back up, because the car behind apparently thought this was some kind of street theater and as I sat there, I realized, “This is just how innocent bystanders get shot.”

Which is when a guy on a bike pulled up and yelled at the screamers that they were douche bags.  It was a perfectly correct assessment, but I thought “And that’s just what we need.  Encouragement.”  Encouragement or not, finally the minivan gave up and was going to retreat, but by then traffic was so backed up in both directions, he couldn’t.  I was seriously considering taking my phone out to play a hand of Yahtzee, but the driver behind me suddenly emerged from his coma to reverse out at top speed like he was Jason Fucking Bourne, followed by me and the minivan.

Just remember, when you come to San Francisco be sure to wear a flower in your hair.  And pack some serious heat.  You might need it.

Cars.  They’re only good as props for muscle pussy.  Amiright?

Traffic Report

The road down through the canyon to our street is undergoing crazy intense construction, as is the intersection at the top of the hill. Combined, this means traffic backs way the hell up all over the place.

Houseboy Muncie Mufftard sometimes gets out and walks.

mrpeenee attempts to be mindful of this at all times and vigilant about taking the back way home instead. The problem is, the intersection to turn off for said back way is designed in such a way that you can see the dreadful traffic jam waiting for you only if you fail to take a left at the light. And then, because traffic engineers are sadistic pervy nerds, there is no way to get off the street until the other side of the most dense snarl of cars, trucks, and weeping, possibly suicidal drivers seen since Eisenhower was in office.

Thus, if one is cruising home pondering deeply about how Liza Minelli and the Pet Shop Boys ever wound up in the same studio at the same time one can sail right through the back way intersection and be well and truly stuck. This just in: shrieking “Goddamit, goddamit, goddamit” does nothing to alleviate the situation.

Surf and Turf

We’re off to the lovely California coast to eat shrimp at Tony’s, a restaurant that defines the word “joint” built on a pier over Tomales Bay. Because this is Northern California, though, the joint has an extensive and thoughtful wine list. The highway there is popular with middle aged guys on motorcycles with their bitches, they like to stop in and discuss the oakiness of the chardonnay. It’s just down the coast from where Hitchcock filmed The Birds. In honor of that, I’m including a picture of the studly Rod Taylor, complete with his big pole.

Where Am I?

We had a lovely trip to Los Angeles, thank you for asking. R Man, god love him, drove all the way, he says he likes to drive and I like to sit staring out the window. It’s a match made in heaven. We always take I-5, a highway as straight and boring as a paper cut. The high point is lunch at Harris Ranch, a cholesterol factory exactly halfway. It’s usually dependable for eye candy of the straight boy type. Which reminds me, why do you so often see ravishing straight boys paired with fat doughy wiveys? Is there some appeal to Roseanne Barr that my gay gene disguises from me?

We also got to see some disturbingly strange urinals.

I love Los Angeles. I enjoy driving around seeing the palm trees and I snagged a fabulous Brazilian body builder at the tubs (Hi, Mauricio!) and we had wonderful Mexican food at El Cholo. If you look up reviews of El Cholo online you’ll find the widest range of opinions one restaurant has ever generated. It sounds like the writers aren’t even talking about the same place. Do I care? No I do not care. I ate until my stomach hurt. Green corn tamales, love ’em.

I love Los Angeles.

I gotta go