One of the benefits of leaving the house is that you see things, odd and occasionally ugly things (like the dancing mattress outside a bed store on San Pedro). I was reminded of the character from the Bible, a whore who carried a mattress on her back. Combined with the Lady Liberty doing some sort of jig to advertise for a tax service, well ... it was all just a bit much.
And then there were the guns. My dear friend and ex-husband fucker called me this morning. She was going to meet up with some blogging friends and wanted a buffer to off-set her usual social apprehension. It was only when she was at my father's house, and I was getting dressed and she - amusingly said, "dress butch," that I began to question the situation. For the record, dressing butch for me was Dolce & Gabbana jeans four sizes too large and a black turtleneck. I wore the olive green Chuck Taylor high-tops. Also for the record, the group she was going to meet consisted of Right-wingers who decided to meet at a shooting range in far Northeast San Antonio. Now, my family having had a farm when I was a child, I fired my first gun at 6; mind you, I haven't fired a gun since then - of course, I live on the (South) East side, so guns are a means to an end.
We didn't make it to the shooting; well, we did - but, much like so many Southern wives, we pulled my friend's station wagon (a Ford, at that) into the range, drove through the parking lot and then left. I was mildly freaked out, not so much by the fact that I was a liberal minded, sashaying black queen ... but more by the presence of that many big trucks and fat men in camouflage. We all have our limits, you know.
We pulled out of the range, and my friend saw goats. There was a house right next to the shooting range with a herd (sic?) of goats - one of which put me in mind of Prada's new winter collection, gray - with white spots and black ears. Shortly thereafter, in the same (very) large yard, we discovered an ass. A spotted ass. Initially, my friend mistook the dear beast for a pig. It reminded me of a Shetland pony, small and cantankerous, odd-seeming and yet adorable. A mule stood before us, spotted and short and round.
We danced the predictable dance of two nerdy friends making bad puns about spotted asses. Something ain't exactly right there, but come on ... it's not like that wasn't predictable.
the Czarina, my darling Warren, and I enjoyed a chat somewhere in there; actually, it was before we hit the shooting range and after the steak dinner in LaVernia. I don't recommend LaVernia, but that steak was worth the "Deliverance" flashbacks I "suffered" while having my Iceberg lettuce, tomato wedges, and Ranch dressing. I told the waitress to find a cow out back (not kidding), punch it in the face and throw on a plate while it was still stunned.
I didn't say it, actually but I really wanted to. Normally, I would, but the trio of absurdly large and very white farm boys sitting at the table behind us gave me a brief pause on both sardonic wit and menacing homosexuality. Although I didn't say it, small hole in the wall steak places do a Southern man proud by continuing to serve steak rare upon request. Chili's, not that I consider that a restaurant per se, will only take it to medium, but my steak was not only bleeding but bitchily trying to sneak off my plate. It was fabulous. I regretted, briefly, that I chose a girly 8 oz. Ribeye when I really wanted the 32 oz. (for one) piece o' cow that would have rendered me incoherent, sleepy, and sexually satisfied.
So, the Czarina called with an idea - a pajama party. Those who know Warren likely know that this would quickly get obscene and easily devolve into a drunken gay orgy with robes from the Bellagio and a pretty little doggie licking your toes while you hit home-base with the guy you met fifteen minutes earlier. That Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, or a pre-pills Judy Garland would be on the screen of the massive TV would only heighten the exceptional homosexual charms of what would already by a really naughty time in (local) history. Warren, who initially was open to the idea of inviting women; on second thought, however, that was not - hea realized - a good idea at all. They have "titties ... and kitties, and I don't need all that floppin' around ..." I chose not to say that I had precisely the same thought at the time.
I still recall fondly a party wherein a guy I was hitting on winding up with the Czarina's psychic friend (the Swami go-down-on-me) in the pantry. It was a blow-job next to several cans of collard greens, and I had to microwave something - as I recall - to cover the sounds of moaning.
I digress, my father has decided to be supportive. I say this rather amusingly unequivocally. He is the epitome of a Southern man, and a Sudden Baptist (as I call them / us), by which I mean that if he either does not comprehend or does not wish to comprehend something he simply stops asking questions. When I commented, for example, that I spent the night with Mark the guy I'm seeing, he simply did not ask any follow-up questions. This being the same man who questions why I didn't drink the coffee he brought home from Burger King or, for that matter, where I'm going (or going to go, rather) when I decide to take a shower, you can understand my surprise.
As a further testament to his being supportive, and my attempts at becoming a real human being again, my father is now parking on our front lawn. We have a one-car garage, and thus a one-car driveway - so, as my car occupies the entire driveway, Dad has taken to pulling his Cavalier in behind me but on the front lawn so as to allow me to leave when the mood strikes. This is both absurdly white trash and amusingly respectful. I am torn on this point.
I am also hoping to (someday perhaps) have an occasion to leave late at night. The lack of late-night booty, or any booty for that matter, would be depressing if it weren't mostly funny (and if I hadn't acquired more porn).
As it stands, I am enjoying the hell out of my big-ass car. It is - if anyone does not know yet - a 1979 Lincoln Town Coupe, a special edition product of someone's love of both powder blue (I'm told it's 'Wedgwood blue') with blue leather interior and a 400 cm engine. The things revs like a bitch and purrs like a kitten. I think I'm in love.
That everything, even the lighter (and the 8-track), works makes it that much hotter. Oddly, though I have a full tank of gas and no job or other responsibilities to distract me, I haven't really traveled at all in my car. My life is, ultimately, a pretty quiet one ... so, I am waiting for the opportunity to hit 75 again (I got up to 75 for the first time the other day, while driving to class, listening to Eminem's "Lose Yourself"). My inaugural trip in the car was with the Czarina; Warren needed vodka and I needed to learn how to pilot that particular ship (I'm thinking of naming it Julia Sugarbaker, which is - coincidentally - what I named my walk). To that end, we went to the liquor store. You really gotta love Alamo Heights sometimes.
On that note, I have just pulled from my laundry hamper the bottle of vodka I hd there three or so days ago. It is going to be an early night of passing out between the floor and my flat-panel TV, downed while attempting to load porn in the built-in DVD player. Oh well, there are worse ways to hit the floor.
Mark
And then there were the guns. My dear friend and ex-husband fucker called me this morning. She was going to meet up with some blogging friends and wanted a buffer to off-set her usual social apprehension. It was only when she was at my father's house, and I was getting dressed and she - amusingly said, "dress butch," that I began to question the situation. For the record, dressing butch for me was Dolce & Gabbana jeans four sizes too large and a black turtleneck. I wore the olive green Chuck Taylor high-tops. Also for the record, the group she was going to meet consisted of Right-wingers who decided to meet at a shooting range in far Northeast San Antonio. Now, my family having had a farm when I was a child, I fired my first gun at 6; mind you, I haven't fired a gun since then - of course, I live on the (South) East side, so guns are a means to an end.
We didn't make it to the shooting; well, we did - but, much like so many Southern wives, we pulled my friend's station wagon (a Ford, at that) into the range, drove through the parking lot and then left. I was mildly freaked out, not so much by the fact that I was a liberal minded, sashaying black queen ... but more by the presence of that many big trucks and fat men in camouflage. We all have our limits, you know.
We pulled out of the range, and my friend saw goats. There was a house right next to the shooting range with a herd (sic?) of goats - one of which put me in mind of Prada's new winter collection, gray - with white spots and black ears. Shortly thereafter, in the same (very) large yard, we discovered an ass. A spotted ass. Initially, my friend mistook the dear beast for a pig. It reminded me of a Shetland pony, small and cantankerous, odd-seeming and yet adorable. A mule stood before us, spotted and short and round.
We danced the predictable dance of two nerdy friends making bad puns about spotted asses. Something ain't exactly right there, but come on ... it's not like that wasn't predictable.
the Czarina, my darling Warren, and I enjoyed a chat somewhere in there; actually, it was before we hit the shooting range and after the steak dinner in LaVernia. I don't recommend LaVernia, but that steak was worth the "Deliverance" flashbacks I "suffered" while having my Iceberg lettuce, tomato wedges, and Ranch dressing. I told the waitress to find a cow out back (not kidding), punch it in the face and throw on a plate while it was still stunned.
I didn't say it, actually but I really wanted to. Normally, I would, but the trio of absurdly large and very white farm boys sitting at the table behind us gave me a brief pause on both sardonic wit and menacing homosexuality. Although I didn't say it, small hole in the wall steak places do a Southern man proud by continuing to serve steak rare upon request. Chili's, not that I consider that a restaurant per se, will only take it to medium, but my steak was not only bleeding but bitchily trying to sneak off my plate. It was fabulous. I regretted, briefly, that I chose a girly 8 oz. Ribeye when I really wanted the 32 oz. (for one) piece o' cow that would have rendered me incoherent, sleepy, and sexually satisfied.
So, the Czarina called with an idea - a pajama party. Those who know Warren likely know that this would quickly get obscene and easily devolve into a drunken gay orgy with robes from the Bellagio and a pretty little doggie licking your toes while you hit home-base with the guy you met fifteen minutes earlier. That Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, or a pre-pills Judy Garland would be on the screen of the massive TV would only heighten the exceptional homosexual charms of what would already by a really naughty time in (local) history. Warren, who initially was open to the idea of inviting women; on second thought, however, that was not - hea realized - a good idea at all. They have "titties ... and kitties, and I don't need all that floppin' around ..." I chose not to say that I had precisely the same thought at the time.
I still recall fondly a party wherein a guy I was hitting on winding up with the Czarina's psychic friend (the Swami go-down-on-me) in the pantry. It was a blow-job next to several cans of collard greens, and I had to microwave something - as I recall - to cover the sounds of moaning.
I digress, my father has decided to be supportive. I say this rather amusingly unequivocally. He is the epitome of a Southern man, and a Sudden Baptist (as I call them / us), by which I mean that if he either does not comprehend or does not wish to comprehend something he simply stops asking questions. When I commented, for example, that I spent the night with Mark the guy I'm seeing, he simply did not ask any follow-up questions. This being the same man who questions why I didn't drink the coffee he brought home from Burger King or, for that matter, where I'm going (or going to go, rather) when I decide to take a shower, you can understand my surprise.
As a further testament to his being supportive, and my attempts at becoming a real human being again, my father is now parking on our front lawn. We have a one-car garage, and thus a one-car driveway - so, as my car occupies the entire driveway, Dad has taken to pulling his Cavalier in behind me but on the front lawn so as to allow me to leave when the mood strikes. This is both absurdly white trash and amusingly respectful. I am torn on this point.
I am also hoping to (someday perhaps) have an occasion to leave late at night. The lack of late-night booty, or any booty for that matter, would be depressing if it weren't mostly funny (and if I hadn't acquired more porn).
As it stands, I am enjoying the hell out of my big-ass car. It is - if anyone does not know yet - a 1979 Lincoln Town Coupe, a special edition product of someone's love of both powder blue (I'm told it's 'Wedgwood blue') with blue leather interior and a 400 cm engine. The things revs like a bitch and purrs like a kitten. I think I'm in love.
That everything, even the lighter (and the 8-track), works makes it that much hotter. Oddly, though I have a full tank of gas and no job or other responsibilities to distract me, I haven't really traveled at all in my car. My life is, ultimately, a pretty quiet one ... so, I am waiting for the opportunity to hit 75 again (I got up to 75 for the first time the other day, while driving to class, listening to Eminem's "Lose Yourself"). My inaugural trip in the car was with the Czarina; Warren needed vodka and I needed to learn how to pilot that particular ship (I'm thinking of naming it Julia Sugarbaker, which is - coincidentally - what I named my walk). To that end, we went to the liquor store. You really gotta love Alamo Heights sometimes.
On that note, I have just pulled from my laundry hamper the bottle of vodka I hd there three or so days ago. It is going to be an early night of passing out between the floor and my flat-panel TV, downed while attempting to load porn in the built-in DVD player. Oh well, there are worse ways to hit the floor.
Mark
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