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April 26, 2003
Back to the SF saga.
Back to the SF saga. I took the opportunity to meet my cousin Omer and his boyfriend Joe. They live near Santa Barbara, so we agreed to meet in Monterrey. Dana, Michael and I rented a sweet Chrysler Sebring convertible, spackled on the sun block, snagged an adaptor for their two iPods, and cruised out of the city. We took the Coastal Highway and the weather agreed to be basically perfect the whole trip. Three fags in a convertible, disco music, and the sun- the ingredients for a perfect road trip. Being a control freak,I drove all the way down, reverting back to my old fashioned road-rage self because people weren't going 80 in the fast lane. The weather was just on the edge of warm, so the person in the back seat always had to wear a coat. I didn't care, it could have been snowing and I would have kept the top down. I've had a lifelong dream to drive down that highway in a convertible. I've fantasized the feeling of a lithe convertible straining at the edges of grip around a twisty bend in the road, the Pacific ocean glimmering on one side, mountains on the other side. Poor Dana and Michael needed Zanax.
I should also mention that we looked marvelous.
Monterrey and Big Sur were everything I hoped they would be, and even had piles of cheese added on. The area is chock full of spectacular scenery, spectacular aquarium fun, and spectacular scenes of rednecks, California style. We wandered around, floating along with the jellyfish and anchovies. Omer and Joe proved to be a terribly interesting couple. Omer is currently on sabbatical doing research on plasma coming out of black holes, and Joe works at JPL doing work on a NASA Mars explorer. They're a bit on the dim bulb side, and quite often we had to use smaller words with them. Working at mindless jobs must be frustrating for them, especially compared with the amazing mental stimulation of being a junior high math teacher.
I never knew that nightlife could be worse than in Clovis, NM, but Monterrey is pretty close. Before the sun sets, everything is brilliant. We packed the convertible, cranked the heat and headed over to the beach for the sunset. Sitting on the rocks as the ocean crashed and foamed below us, surrounded by friends and family, watching the massive sun fall below the horizon, I knew that I really needed to pee. Seriously, there are rare times when everything is good. Even rarer is being aware of how good things are in that moment. This was one of those moments. There wasn't a lot of talk, just easy camaraderie .
Once the sun set, the real fun began. We had dinner at a Greek restaurant, had a random conversation with the waiter about the death of John Denver (he became an ocean buoy rather than a mountain boy in Monterrey Bay), and apparently offended some nasty conservatives at the next table. I have to say that the only really offensive thing were the Stepford wives in this group, even though Dana heard one of them say that Republicans were responsible for our ability to have our conversation. Apparently Democrats are traitorous flag burners, and that woman's mutant sized SUV will save the environment, as long as her hair can still fit. Omer and Joe went to bed, then we narrowed the enormous entertainment choices down to the 18+ sports bar on the ground floor of the hotel, called Champions. Fortunately for us, we were older than 21, so we got the really huge stamp that said we were mature enough to drink. We also had the distinct good fortune of being there on karaoke night. I forgot how much fun straight folk have in their strange tribal activities. The bartender was an idiot, the lighting was on maximum, and we decided we had to leave when Sir Mixalot's "I like big butts" came over the speakers. I'm okay with the song, I just object to the large man with breasts dance humping the big hair girl with no breasts. Michael went to the concierge and asked where the gay bar was. We pretty much knew not to ask for gay bars, but were disappointed when we found out the only gay bar had closed down months earlier. She suggested a bar called Viva, which she said was the gayest in town.
Gay has a plethora of definitions. Gay can be good, gay can be bad, gay can be really really bad. Viva was really, really gay, in the really, really bad way. Michael bought a round of truly disgusting drinks that pretended to be mojitos while 12 year olds frolicked around us. All of this nighttime magic was accompanied by a bad metal/rock adolescent band wearing matching satin shorts. Their shorts were also gay, in that really bad way. The combination of the satin shorts and the simple syrup gave a lovely unpleasant queasiness to the evening.
Posted by G at April 26, 2003 10:36 PM