In Which We Wander

Diane von Austinburg and I both remarked at times on this trip to Paris and London how very easy it has been.  And it truly was, right up to the point when it wasn't. The last day of our trip, we left the hotel with plenty of time, I fumbled through check-in, said goodbye to Diane, who was on a separate flight, and settled into the very fancy first class lounge, because I am a fancy boy.  It was all very nice, quiet and well appointed. 

The problem was it was just a little too comfortable.  After I found my fabulously cozy chair and started reading a very interesting book I had saved for this very purpose, I sort of lost track of time.  Actually "sort of" is an understatement; I completely lost track of time.  That's what reading will do to you.  When I finally looked up I realized I was in real trouble.  I had to scramble out of the rarified atmosphere of first class and down through a train ride to another terminal where I found the gate had closed at 2:55.  The time was 2:58.  Oops.

So then I had to drag myself off to customer service (everybody's favorite department) with my tail between my legs and admit that I had missed my flight for no better reason than that I am an idiot.  The lady at the desk was very nice and refrained from passing along to the ticketing agent the insight I had shared about my absolute lack of mental ability, and got me a ticket for the next day.  And how much did that cost you, mrpeenee?  Let us not dwell on such sordid details and just file that under the heading of A Lot.

Diane had mentioned that Terminal 5 of Heathrow Airport is the largest freestanding building in Great Britain, and I am here to confirm that, having dragged myself across every square fucking inch of that fucking building.  Of course the gate where I missed my flight was on the other side of the airport from where I needed to go to rebook my ticket which was then back across from where I needed to go to be "escorted out" since having gone through security I couldn't just wander off into the wild world. Heathrow airport is actually a very large shopping mall with various airport functions scattered in hither and yon.  All the directions I got for where I needed to go were couched in terms of consumerist landmarks, "Customer services is next to Starbucks," "Have a seat across from Chanel and we'll call your name." By the time I had crossed and recrossed the whole damn place my feet hurt, I was sweaty, and all too glad to collapse in the Heathrow Sheraton.  I can recommend their spaghetti bolognese.

The next day I went back through the whole thrilling adventure of getting through the airport and actually boarding the plane.  The only rough patch was the gate where three different flights were boarding simultaneously and a riot seemed imminent.  It was the most chaotic scene in an airport I've ever witnessed, and I've flown Southwest out of New Orleans when everyone, the ticket agents, the crew, the passengers, everybody, was drunk.

But I got home, hooray, and the cats are very glad to see me.  Toby has spent most of the last 24 hours standing on my head to celebrate.  I know every time I leave on a trip when I get back I announce firmly, "I am never leaving San Francisco again," but this time for sure.

There's no place like home, and no guys like naked guys:

How I could have used some of this as I was crying myself to sleep in the Heathrow Sheraton.

It all turned into a very long day of Not Getting Home.

Plus I had to then admit my shame to everyone, Diane, my friends taking care of the cats, the staff at the airport and hotel, that I missed my flight because I wasn't paying attention.

At least the British Airways guys were professionally polite, my "friends" were exactly as supportive as you would expect.  They all laughed.

It makes me realize there is no future in human friends; it's all AI from now on for me.

You think traveling in first class would remove you from the hoi polloi, but I am here to tell you there is no escape.  That mob at the gate I had to fight my way through was the hoi-est polloi you can imagine.

One of the things I'm reminded of whenever I travel is that people smell bad.

Also, I don't know how we managed to travel without phones, back in the dark ages.

In Which We Return

 

The mission statement of mrpeenee, Inc. LLC

Well that was fun.  I left Venice early Tuesday morning and got home something like 16 hours later, 16 very tiring hours.  Turns out even having a chair that makes into a bed, while making the whole ordeal easier, does not totally do away with the hassles of flying.  I've been home two days and I'm still trying to get my frail carcass back to normal.  Or as normal as it ever gets.  I'm just glad to be back to my own bed, my own pillow, and my own toilet and I understand that is the definitive old man statement.  Don't care, won't care.

Let me once again emphasize how much I appreciate what a good sport Diane was about traveling with me.  There we were, in two of the great cultural centers and my plan was to take naps and have coffee and pastries, which is exactly what I do here. The St. Regis cafe, a block from our hotel in Paris, gets 5 enthusiastic stars, would go again, in a heartbeat.  Also the place in Venice that sells pistachio cream filled croissants was really good.

Here's my review of Delta airlines, with which I flew home: the planes suck (The seat to bed thingy worked okay, but was so narrow I couldn't fit my elbows down by my side when lying down, and I am not a particularly wide individual.) but the personnel were great.  I originally had a 6-hour layover in Atlanta and needed to get a boarding pass for my leg back to San Francisco.  The desk I had to deal with had three ladies filing their nails and refusing to make eye contact and one large homo.  Naturally, we bonded, girlfriend got me a first class seat on a flight that was boarding pretty much right then.  I was home, and glad of it, before my original flight even took off.  

In short I'm delighted I went, I had a wonderful time, and I am never leaving San Francisco again. 

Fellow travelers: 

Well, someone knows how to have a good time.

I've decided to start a new religion

Extra beefy is always welcome around here

Everything counts in large amounts.

Extra tasty, just for you.

Buttchops

In Which We Try to Fly

 

Fred and I wrapped up our very amusing trip to LA (I had short ribs four times in four different ways in the three days that we spent there.  Don't ask me, I don't know how these things happen.) We woke up Monday morning to make our way to the airport and that's when our gay little adventure came tumbling down.  Isn't that always just the way?

The whole weekend the news had been full of rack and ruin predictions about a great big storm that blew in Saturday night.  I had ignored all of the weather related hysterics; I grew up in the swamps of East Texas and I am not impressed with rain storms unless they actually have sharks aloft in them.  Los Angeles is a desert community and I figured the angelinos were simply unfamiliar with the concept of precipitation.

Sure enough, the storm blew in Sunday, and you know what?  It was rain.  Fred went out with some friends but I stayed in the hotel and had lunch in the nice little dining room and was very cozy.

Luncheon is served.

We were supposed to fly out at noon on Monday, but weather conditions delayed our flight till 2:00.  No big deal right?  We got to the airport and our departure started slipping back further and further with weather delays continuing to be blamed.  Finally about 5:00, the airline announced "oh you know what, never mind, your flight is canceled."

While my fellow passenger panicked and griped, Fred got in line at the ticket counter to pry our bags out of Alaska airlines' nasty little hands and I started scrambling to get another flight out.  We were at Burbank airport and they were zero more flights that night, but I found a United one leaving out of Los Angeles International (LAX) around 8:00 pm.

Before I could even feel relieved, my phone decided it was tired and wanted a break.  I had spent the time we were hanging around playing games on my traitorous phone and now it was dying.  I hustled over to an outlet and plugged the charger in, only to find that in the 90 seconds it had taken me to get my charger going, the seats were no longer available.  The only option was an even later flight at 10:30. Fine.

LAX is on the far side of Los Angeles from Burbank, but we made it over there in about an hour and cleared security in record time so that we could go and settle in at the gate.  That's when we slammed into the world's most miserable seating.  The whole terminal is very new and part of the decorating involved chairs that were both modern and lumpy.  I spent almost 4 hours in them and never did find a comfortable position.

By the time the gate agent announced in funereal tones that our flight was delayed (AGAIN. It's not even the same fucking airport, How could this bad luck have trailed after us?) Fred was seriously beginning to fade.  The combination of chemo and cancer has been hard on the poor little thing.  He was crumpling like a balloon at the end of a very long birthday party and I was starting to wonder what one does if one's companion simply collapses in the particular hell that is an airport.

Let us just skip over the misery of those few hours, including the part where I made Fred just lie down on the floor because there was no where else to settle.  In the end, miraculously, we made it back to our own little cow town and never has it seemed so welcome.  My suitcase disappeared, but by that point I was perfectly willing to abandon it and all the dirty clothes it held.  I just wanted to return to the embrace of my own bed, my own pillow, and my own toilet.

Guys:

Why you looking so sad sweetie?  Have the aviation gods turned against you too?

Tight jeans and a voluptuous ass, it's a match made in heaven.

Sorry, I don't have any naked names today, it's been a rough week.

You know what would have helped the LAX ordeal?  This guy and 15 minutes in a spacious toilet.

I'm in a black & white frame of mind.

Dmitry Averyanov

While in LA, I watched Those Who Wish Me Dead with the chaturbate movie club.  It was pretty good.

In Which We Invade Hollywood

 

Secret Agent Fred and I have journeyed down south to Los Angeles.  Leaving San Francisco is not something I ever consider lightly, but Fred has started yet another round of chemo and was looking for a distraction.  

We were scheduled to hit the road at noon, so I set my alarm for last minute o'clock.  It startled me when it went off and I thought "What the hell is THAT?  Do I have something to do today?" Fortunately, before I could roll over and fall back asleep, I remembered our travel plans.  Oh, mrpeenee, you are just a card 

The airport was exactly what it always is: frantically rushing to squeeze through the most stressful part of the trip immediately followed by sitting around being bored, with a $6 bag of Skittles.

We are snuggled in at a sweet little hotel I like in West Hollywood, the gay ghetto of LA. At one time, Fred and I would have been out terrorizing the queer bars, but now we have settled for ice cream from room service.

Plans are vague (what a surprise for the two of us) except to hang out with friends who have the questionable taste to live here.  Fred and I made some cheap talk about museum visiting. We'll see.

Also, every time I type something that starts with a "t" my auto correct immediately jumps to the conclusion that I am writing about tacos.  I will take that as a sign and plan on Mexican food while we're here.  As if that is a surprise.

Fellow travelers:

Brandy Martignago, looking all SoCal.

The extra beefy buttchops of Buck Hayes.

Gianluigi Volti before his regrettable clown tats.

Anonymous, but artsy, ass.

Daniele Montana looking extra pretty just for you.

Atheleisure is yet another made up word of which I do not approve. 

In Which We Survive a Tangle with The Man

 

Guess what?  Diane von Austinburg and I are going to Europe in the spring, Paris and Venice, to be specific.  I haven't been to Europe in decades; after R Man died, it just didn't seem appealing to try a trip like that without him.  And then by the time I became resigned enough to life without him, my back had degenerated to the point that I couldn't face the idea of a 10 or 12-hour flight.

But coincidentally, my trip back from Houston was on a plane with seats that converted into flat beds, full sized comfortable beds.  A whole new world of possibilities opened before me.  If I could lie down for the bulk of the flight, flying to Paris suddenly seemed very doable.  Sleeping for a 12-hour stretch is no great effort for me, I have been training for this for years.

Plus since then, I got my trigger point injection which has dealt very handily with the pain in my back.  The injections last about 6 to 8 weeks so I will be able to get another one right before we go and should be pretty much pain-free.  What a concept.

Convincing Diane was a snap, god love her, she is such a sport, game for anything.  So that only left one hurdle, renewing my passport.

A career of working for the federal government has left me permanently leery of being entangled in any part of their web.  Nevertheless, I wasn't going to revel in fresh croissants in Paris and strolling along canals in Venice without a passport and so I dove into the very murky waters of travel documents.

The State Department handles passports and they used to have an office devoted entirely to that across the alley from where I worked, so handy. But that was before decades of Republican attacks on the size of the government did away with all that customer friendly nonsense and instead moved the whole function of accepting passport applications over to, drumroll please, the US Post Office.  I suppose they thought moving passports to the most reviled agency in the government would discourage citizens from fleeing the country.

First I got my passport photo taken (Diane said it did not make me look like a serial killer, which would've been sweetly supportive, I suppose, if I had made any reference to thinking that it did make me look serial killer-ish. Hmmm.)  I made an appointment, showed up on time (amazingly) only to be confronted with a locked door and a scrawled message to use the regular post office window instead, because what's the point of going to the specific level of hell that is a post office if you are going to duck out on dealing with the exquisitely surly postal employees.

During our lengthy time together, the clerk never once looked me in the eye, not even when she was trying to say my birth certificate was invalid.  Bitch, what do you want for me?  That paper is more than 60 years old, has gone through several hurricanes as well as my erratic youth, and it's all I've got.  There was a tense couple of moments when it was not clear if I was going to be able to stuff my face avec croissants in Paris after all, but she finally shrugged and stapled it to the passport form.  

The clerk asked me if I wanted the form rushed and I said no, which immediately seem to raise all sorts of red flags.  I guess I was the only customer who had ever declined their idea of a rush job.  She was so suspicious of me that she kept kind of circling back to that point throughout the rest of the process.  We would be sailing along on some random other part of the questionnaire and she would again spring "Do do you want this rushed?" like she was hoping to be able to trip me up.

I was finally able to totter out of there, past all the people in line behind me who had been making sotto voice, passive aggressive complaints about how long I was hogging the window.  I considered hissing at them as I passed, but I was so glad to escape I decided not to.

Anyway, a little more than six weeks later, my passport showed up in the mail months before I needed it and with my waterlogged birth certificate stapled firmly to it because, honestly I don't know why, it's the post office, maybe they have a staple fetish.

So come April, Diane and I will be winging our way to the glories of Paris and Venice.  I have cleverly scheduled us so that on my birthday, I will have breakfast in Paris and dinner in Venice.  Doesn't that sound fabulous?

Naked dudes who are also fabulous:

I am pretty much completely out of naked guys' identities this week.  Sorry.

Surfer dudes are always welcome.

I know some of my readers are very fond of hairy, beefy guys.

Whereas everyone likes a well turned buttchop

Maybe the Post Office thinks if they make the passport system too easy then everyone would have one and then, I don't know, the terrorists win?

Have mercy.

Big nuts.