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Hi, have we met? I’m the wife of Kermit the frog.

Another bulleted travelog. Because it’s easier this way. Trust me. Easier.

 

     

  • I walked into Tiffany’s in Union Square, feeling the full weight of my unencumbered gold MasterCard in my DKNY tote. I saw a pair of diamond and aquamarine earrings that tickled my fancy. “Excuse me.” I said to the lady behind the counter who was haphazardly delinting a black fuzzy jewelry box. She ignored me. “Excuse me, could I see these please?” I said a bit more loudly. She continued to ignore me. “Excuse me, Miss?” I said quite loudly. “Yes?” She said without looking up from her task. “Could I see these aquamarine’s please?” I said. “The necklace?” She sneered at me, meaning a diamond encrusted collar that might have gone down on the Titanic. “No, the earrings.” I clarified. “I’d like to see them please.” She sniffed at me “They are two thousand, nine hundred and fifty dollars.” And then walked away. I was stunned. Had it been later in the day, had I had some caffeine, had I not have been already cowed into submission by an imperious Asian hair dresser, I would have said loudly “Yes, and I’d. Like. To. See. Them. Please.” But I was not. I thought for a moment about slapping down my plastic and saying “wrap them up” just to prove a point, but she never gave me the chance. Instead she was busy ignoring other tourists with money to spend. Later when I was telling Esteban about it, he was expecting me to then withdraw from my bag a small blue box and say “So these really weren’t that expensive and they’re quite lovely” and had her complete and utter lack of respect not left me aghast I would have done just that. I suppose she suspected that fat girls don’t have enough money left over after filling their faces.Boats.  Yup.  Boats.

     

  • Chauffi and I went to Jenfu’s literary reading in Berkeley with Mopie and La Wade (who is one of the most brilliant and hysterical people I think I’ve met and might just possibly be perfect. If there is ass out there to be kicked, I think Jen is the girl to do it. With science, even.) and then had a delightful dinner, followed by a rousing evening of Balderdash at two local Berkeley establishments. Everything was a small badger-like creature named Finnochio pelting us with argos. I think the evening left several of us lightheaded from laughter. I started out leading the pack on the board, but somehow ended up in very last place, left in the flurch quite soundly by the two Jen’s. There were so many hilarious things but the thing that immediately comes to mind: When given the word “fipple”, I wrote down “a false nipple”, which, when read out loud, produced the reaction “Weetabix!!”. I still don’t know how they knew it was me.
  • I still have a thigh bruise from my March trip.
  • Apparently, I make an easy mark for panhandlers. When approached for change, my companions had emotionless faces and while I said nothing, apparently I looked as though I wanted to cry a river of tears for the man. I got better at having no expression by the end of the trip and on the final day, three tourists asked me if I knew how to get to some place or another. Mission accomplished.
  • One evening while waiting for the lovely Ms. Fu to finish her ablutions, Pie, Chauffi and I hung out at a gay bar in the Tenderloin, despite the fact that none of us are indeed gay. We didn’t realize that it was a gay bar until we were long entrenched in our Sea Breezes and Lemon Drop shots (the empty glasses of which were fellated quite nicely by one who will not be named). Of course, the best juke boxes in the world live in gay bars, so we were plugging millions of Madonna, Erasure, and Abba songs and getting more and more rowdy by the moment. Chauffi, making his heartfelt marriage proposalJenfu had hoped for dinner of fondue but by the time she arrived, the three of us were completely and utterly plastered, playing a game of “Marry, Fuck or Kill.” I will apparently be Mrs. Bob Dole very shortly, while nearly everyone Chauffi ended up fucking would be serviced from behind. And apparently, Ms. Pie will be finishing her last will and testament in the next few weeks, shortly after having sex with Ursula the Sea Witch. Because each and every one of us is a very evil person. I also demonstrated my ability to sing exactly like Denis De Young and then we forced the Fu to drink many shots of whiskey to catch up. Again. Evil people. Chauffi declared that all of our assiduous thoughts of dinner were for naught as he could see a sign across the street which advertised pancakes, and therefore we must eat pancakes. Because there they were. Pancakes. It was all very logical at the time.
  • Or, as came tumbling from my mouth at one point, “Pantscakes”.
  • At the Pantscakes place, MoPie unveiled the Weetabix Birthday Extravaganza, which involved strange artifacts from Chinatown, including miscellaneous Chinese candy (I fear that there is a beef flavored on in the mix, but one may never know), some red and green printed paper, an orange pumpkiny toothpick thingy, some more strange candy involving marshmallows and perhaps orange marmalade, some lucky bamboo, and the piece de resistance, a six inch blue cock (of which I have pictures but you’ll just have to wait unless Ms Pie has a jump on the photo thing because she is very clever that way and there is one particularly interesting picture of me looking at the cock in abject horror that I have no doubt will be appearing on Anyone’s Any very soon.)
  • I named him Squishy. And he will be my love. Everyone admired my cock, then Jen began to taunt it. “Ba-cock!” I wanted to call her a dirty cock tease, but as she had just taken a shower, it really didn’t apply. Bemused Fu taunts the cock.
  • Ms. Pie has made me promise to display Squishy in a prominent place in my home and regularly take photos of him with perhaps that day’s newspaper to prove that Squishy is being adored. I am currently in search of a square platform for Squishy to stand upon. Every good cock needs a cock block.
  • We then hit the road for a Japanese karaoke joint, but we were racially profiled once we got there. Apparently, while I hit the potties, they were schooled by the Brind Russian lady about “no screaming, two drink minimum, two dorrar song” and then left with the suggestion that maybe we’d be better off in a private room, which was Brind Russian for “We don’t want your kind here.” We are uncertain whether they had problems in the past or if they remembered some of us from JournalCon. We headed to the Castro instead, along with all of the other people who didn’t get enough attention as children. Seriously, there was a three hour wait to sing. It was insane, but we did get to watch the Fu dance like a rock video while a fan gently fluffed her hair and then we bonded over our shared love of Xanadu. Now we are here, in Xanadu.
  • “Catnip for lesbians” has transformed into “dyke crack”. This was never more apparent when, while I was singing karaoke at The Mint, Pie yelled up “Weet! D.C.!” and I took a look at the audience.When Mo smiles, the world sings. I held the rapt attention of each and every lesbian in the place during my out of breath rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s “Gypsy”, complete with scary Stevie Nicks twirls. It was like cats watching a rather succulent canary. The women even offered verbal encouragement from the audience as I’d attempt the long-winded held notes. I shall never doubt the power of the force again.
  • Proof that the internet makes the world a smaller place: one of the cabs I caught from somewhere to my hotel was driven by Ratso, a very non-stereotypical cab driver in
    that he was clever and articulate and his cab smelled very pleasant. I love the electronic age. I really do. Go say hi to Ratso and call him if you ever need a pleasant cab ride in the city.
  • I wandered around The Mission with Patsy Cline, mostly book shopping and wishing for fog instead of piercing daylight. I found a book by Throcky. And bought it. And got all giddy. Because it’s THROCKY!!! I’m still all giddy. Gerber in Yuerba Buena Gardens.
  • Inexplicably, the ‘hi’ voice inside my head started saying “Que Lastima!” I still don’t know why. Perhaps because I am engaged to be married to Wilford Brimley.
  • Things I want to remember forever: Pie and I doing cheers from “Bring It On” on a street corner in the Tenderloin; someone in the backseat of the Watermelon screaming “Hey, lady, do you give good head” at the crème of society departing from the symphony; finding a plethora of Pocky and White Rabbit candy; the imitation of David the gay hairdresser that went from foppish Brit to foppish Scottish pirate-like creature; thinking that a Chinese restaurant smelled like cat pee and then having Chauffi turn to me and say quietly “It smells like pee in here.”; taking pictures of our breasts to the amazement and delight of Patsy Cline; “I would do her from behind”; wandering around Flax being in love with the art paper and stationery; the sense of wholeness I got in City Lights the way it answered the question that I’ve had for so long; and the lovely voice mail message from JenFu as I waited in the airport for my departing redeye late on Saturday night, telling me how much she can’t wait for me to come back, come back, come back and feeling all warm and squishy (and Ba-Cock!!!) about what awesome and cool friends I have and what a truly excellent adventure it has been.

 

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  1. Tangled up in Bix « That's My Bix! on Friday, March 25, 2011 at 1:31 pm

    […] get all of my archives restored with fixed images… it could happen! Bonus for Weetaconners: the origin of Pantscakes!) and how my attempts at covering that hot tranny mess were basically an exercise in tragedy […]

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