When in Rome...
7:30 AM. John & I are on the road, beginning what is now our annual Provincetown tour.
We mistakenly begin this trip without a preemptive caffeinated beverage strike. This will derail the first 20 minutes of the trip as we traverse the same stretch of the Harlem River Drive 3 times due to my jumping the gun at 179th Street instead of intelligently waiting for 181st Street to turn onto the Washington Bridge (not the GW Bridge, mind you, just in case you were getting confused) to get to the Cross Bronx.
As of this moment, this portion of the trip will never be spoken of again.
8:50 AM. We FINALLY get freaking coffee. We've been waiting for one of the rest stop signs to contain anything other than a McDonalds (ideally Dunkin' Donuts), but to no avail. There is a separate coffee stand from which to obtain said caffeine, but also (ugh) partake of their breakfast burrito, seeing as we had no other choice but the ooey-gooey carbolicious treats offered by the adjunct coffee stand. I determine that there is no actual cheese in said burrito, but the same cheese sauce concoction used in boxed macaroni & cheese. Interesting.
9:10 AM. THE NEXT EXIT HAS A DUNKIN' DONUTS!!!!
9:55 AM. Caffeine firmly in blood stream. Time to continue the commemorative photolog:
11:30 AM. Gas stop, tire check and snack break. Get our gas at Ray's Mobil Service Station. Ray is scary. In that Fatty-Big-Eye kind of way (upper body WAY out of proportion with lower). Get snackies at Wendy's (because John needs coffee).
11:50 AM. THE NEXT EXIT HAS A DUN-FREAKIN DONUTS!!!!!
1:00 PM. Attempt to stop for lunch after much deliberation and crankiness from both parties involved (never put two queens in a car together - last year it worked, because I was so sick I lost my voice). Walk into said place, realize that we're not going to pay $17 for a meal we have to order at a counter (even if they "bring it all out to you"). Screw that. Get back into car and make beeline for Ptown.
2:00 PM. Ensconced at Patio in Ptown. John makes me order a cocktail. Apparently he needs me to drink. So he can deal with me. Seriously, it's like we're an old married couple. Yeesh. Wait forever to order our food. Then...
A violinist begins to play next to the Patio. A tonally-challenged violinist. Think bagpipes without a steady airstream. Think donkeys honking. Think fingernails on the blackboard. I seriously thought of several ways in which I could dismember the violin, using various dismembered body parts from the violinist.
However, the piece de la resistance occurred as in horror we watched a woman have a seizure and collapse near said violinist. After several people rushed to her aid, and an ambulance arrived, I commented to John, "Not to be insensitive, but at least that damned violinist stopped playing."
Indeed she had. The collapsing woman perhaps made better entertainment? Maybe the guilt of knowing her tonally challenged intervals had caused the woman's seizure made her unable to go on? We'll never know. All I can say is: Nice going, Stradivarius.
4:15 PM. After retiring for a bit of a disco nap to our lovely motel we began preparations for the ritualistic descent upon that Ptown daily tradition: The Tea Dance.
For those not in the know (and I'd be surprised if a number of readers of this blog were in the know) the Tea Dance is a daily event that condones, nay even encourages, boozing, cruising and even hooking up, beginning at 4 PM. It only goes to 7 PM, so you only have two hours to cruise, shmooze and flooze yourself into plans for the rest of the night (with that night's special someone - may I remind you that there's a reason the Tea Dance is a daily ritual).
5:20 PM. We enter the Tea Dance after being carded by the bouncer. Those gay men always know how to make a clearly legally aged woman feel good (I mean, it's daylight for Christ's sake). After sauntering back and forth a few times, checking to see what our best vantage point might be, we settle for somewhere around the middle and order cocktails (no pun). Not even halfway through our drinks, my eyes are drawn to a seemingly impossible sight.
There is a man, in pressed jeans (as in creases down the front and back, as though they were slacks), with the most ENORMOUS package I've ever seen, let alone imagined possible. I mean, he looked like he had ripped the lower arm off a 14-year-old boy, curled the hand into a fist, and stuffed it sideways in his pants. I kid you not.
I pointed him out to John and soon I noticed that the whole group of people behind and around us had noticed and were commenting on Mr. McCreased Jeans. If you've never been with a large group of gay males, you don't know what a feat this is. It's one thing to know that in any given group of gays, the majority are going to be talking about someone else in plain view. It's another thing when they're ALL talking about the same someone. It was like watching a brush fire in California. I seriously wanted to take a picture to post, but I wasn't sure if I could get away with it. If we see him again, I will definitely muster up the nerve. INSANE.
9:30 PM. I've settled in with a bottle of wine and the TV (Iron Chef Rules!!!), because I am worn the fuck out. John goes out and lives la vida Ptown and comes home at 2:30 AM. All is right in the world.
We mistakenly begin this trip without a preemptive caffeinated beverage strike. This will derail the first 20 minutes of the trip as we traverse the same stretch of the Harlem River Drive 3 times due to my jumping the gun at 179th Street instead of intelligently waiting for 181st Street to turn onto the Washington Bridge (not the GW Bridge, mind you, just in case you were getting confused) to get to the Cross Bronx.
As of this moment, this portion of the trip will never be spoken of again.
8:50 AM. We FINALLY get freaking coffee. We've been waiting for one of the rest stop signs to contain anything other than a McDonalds (ideally Dunkin' Donuts), but to no avail. There is a separate coffee stand from which to obtain said caffeine, but also (ugh) partake of their breakfast burrito, seeing as we had no other choice but the ooey-gooey carbolicious treats offered by the adjunct coffee stand. I determine that there is no actual cheese in said burrito, but the same cheese sauce concoction used in boxed macaroni & cheese. Interesting.
9:10 AM. THE NEXT EXIT HAS A DUNKIN' DONUTS!!!!
9:55 AM. Caffeine firmly in blood stream. Time to continue the commemorative photolog:
11:30 AM. Gas stop, tire check and snack break. Get our gas at Ray's Mobil Service Station. Ray is scary. In that Fatty-Big-Eye kind of way (upper body WAY out of proportion with lower). Get snackies at Wendy's (because John needs coffee).
11:50 AM. THE NEXT EXIT HAS A DUN-FREAKIN DONUTS!!!!!
1:00 PM. Attempt to stop for lunch after much deliberation and crankiness from both parties involved (never put two queens in a car together - last year it worked, because I was so sick I lost my voice). Walk into said place, realize that we're not going to pay $17 for a meal we have to order at a counter (even if they "bring it all out to you"). Screw that. Get back into car and make beeline for Ptown.
2:00 PM. Ensconced at Patio in Ptown. John makes me order a cocktail. Apparently he needs me to drink. So he can deal with me. Seriously, it's like we're an old married couple. Yeesh. Wait forever to order our food. Then...
A violinist begins to play next to the Patio. A tonally-challenged violinist. Think bagpipes without a steady airstream. Think donkeys honking. Think fingernails on the blackboard. I seriously thought of several ways in which I could dismember the violin, using various dismembered body parts from the violinist.
However, the piece de la resistance occurred as in horror we watched a woman have a seizure and collapse near said violinist. After several people rushed to her aid, and an ambulance arrived, I commented to John, "Not to be insensitive, but at least that damned violinist stopped playing."
Indeed she had. The collapsing woman perhaps made better entertainment? Maybe the guilt of knowing her tonally challenged intervals had caused the woman's seizure made her unable to go on? We'll never know. All I can say is: Nice going, Stradivarius.
4:15 PM. After retiring for a bit of a disco nap to our lovely motel we began preparations for the ritualistic descent upon that Ptown daily tradition: The Tea Dance.
For those not in the know (and I'd be surprised if a number of readers of this blog were in the know) the Tea Dance is a daily event that condones, nay even encourages, boozing, cruising and even hooking up, beginning at 4 PM. It only goes to 7 PM, so you only have two hours to cruise, shmooze and flooze yourself into plans for the rest of the night (with that night's special someone - may I remind you that there's a reason the Tea Dance is a daily ritual).
5:20 PM. We enter the Tea Dance after being carded by the bouncer. Those gay men always know how to make a clearly legally aged woman feel good (I mean, it's daylight for Christ's sake). After sauntering back and forth a few times, checking to see what our best vantage point might be, we settle for somewhere around the middle and order cocktails (no pun). Not even halfway through our drinks, my eyes are drawn to a seemingly impossible sight.
There is a man, in pressed jeans (as in creases down the front and back, as though they were slacks), with the most ENORMOUS package I've ever seen, let alone imagined possible. I mean, he looked like he had ripped the lower arm off a 14-year-old boy, curled the hand into a fist, and stuffed it sideways in his pants. I kid you not.
I pointed him out to John and soon I noticed that the whole group of people behind and around us had noticed and were commenting on Mr. McCreased Jeans. If you've never been with a large group of gay males, you don't know what a feat this is. It's one thing to know that in any given group of gays, the majority are going to be talking about someone else in plain view. It's another thing when they're ALL talking about the same someone. It was like watching a brush fire in California. I seriously wanted to take a picture to post, but I wasn't sure if I could get away with it. If we see him again, I will definitely muster up the nerve. INSANE.
9:30 PM. I've settled in with a bottle of wine and the TV (Iron Chef Rules!!!), because I am worn the fuck out. John goes out and lives la vida Ptown and comes home at 2:30 AM. All is right in the world.
posted by Brenda at 6:11 PM
4 What'd you say?
seizures are stradiLARIOUS!
and that shot of you in the mirror is invigorating...to me...in the area
HAHAHA! (`O`) What funny, funny writing! It is hystarical...
NOTE: You know, not trying to make this comment too long, but I looked up the spelling for hystarical:
1 : a psychoneurosis marked by emotional excitability and disturbances of the psychic, sensory, vasomotor, and visceral functions
Blaaaah!
(see ya again! Nice blog!)
Wow...looks like you had one helluva vacation! Glad you guys had fun! I'm planning a trip back to Birmingham to reunite with my Rocky Horror Cast in October. Thank god for friends in the Airline business!!!!
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