The Bubble Bath, Part 23 - The Final Splash

Editor’s Note:  We’ve just stumbled out of “Splash”, a bar in Manhattan where we’ve been presented with exhibitionistic bar tenders, show tunes, and a pack of architects. It was all great fun, but we are now in serious need of nourishment before one or all of us end up in a squad car, and I really don’t relish capping of our time with Bubbles by sitting in a drunk tank…

  Somehow we manage to flag down a cab. I don’t really remember the details of this acquirement, but there we were, piling into the vehicle, all of us bellowing and banging up against one another as we try to get settled in the car. Both Terry and Bubbles have achieved that specialized level of inebriation where they think that every sentence that comes out of their mouths is the funniest and/or most profound thing that has ever been uttered in the history of the planet.

  I’m only dimly aware of this, because I’m just a hair below their exuberance on the drinking scale, but I’m cognizant enough to realize that we are making asses of ourselves, becoming those people that nobody wants to talk to when you reach a certain point in the evening. They are both high-fiving each other over everything they say while I’m squashed up against the door, hoping that they both fall out the other door and get run down by some arrogant chauffer driving a fancy limo. It might get a bit bloody, but at least there will be silence.

  Happily for all (well, except for the cab driver), the rocking and swaying of the vehicle stirs up the cocktail mix in my belly, and I finally tumble over into the Dark Side where Bubbles and Terry have already set up camp. Now all three of us don’t care about anything but our own satisfaction. Life is good. (Well, except for the cab driver.)

  And for a bit, I do actually have some humanistic feelings for the plight of this man who has been saddled with transporting Bubbles and The Supremes to wherever the hell it is that we want to go. I lean forward to speak with him intimately, because when 2-for-1 drinks have been involved, you think that everybody is your best friend and that these friends are waiting with trembling anticipation to hear anything which you might wish to share with them. I knock on the separating sheet of plastic-glass that divides our life experiences.

  The driver is not really pleased with that. Knocking is not something which he wishes to hear right at the moment. In fact, based upon his reactionary expression, my life is about to end. I realize that perhaps this is not a situation that I would like to face, the ending of things. But I persevere. This man must know that we wish him no harm. I make a weak attempt at détente: “We’ve had a bit to drink.”

  Absolute silence from behind the wheel.

  Fine. I did my part for social justice. If he doesn’t want to play along, exchanging olive branches and sharing a peace pipe, well, then that’s something he can take up with his personal god at the appropriate time. It’s no longer in my hands. (Wait, did Terry just throw his underwear out the window? Not sure, but something just exited the vehicle with tremendous speed. You really have to pay attention around here.)

  Suddenly, the driver lowers his expectations and decides to minimally communicate, barking out a single word: “Where?”

  Oh. Well, he’s kind of rude, but he does have a point. Where are we going?

  Terry comes to life. He wants to go to a restaurant that he remembers from a previous visit to NYC, some establishment in Little Italy. (I think it was Little Italy. Keep in mind, we’re all buzzing, the cabdriver hates us, everyone in the back seat is talking over one another, and I’m still mystified by what might have been thrown out the window, now no longer certain that anything actually was tossed.  Focus was not something that any of us really had at the moment.)

  Terry and Bubbles share enough directives with the driver that he seems satisfied. Next thing I know (Did I nap? Possibly.) he’s letting us out on Mulberry Street. (So of course I think of Dr. Seuss, and before I can help myself I’m singing a homemade song about green eggs and ham because, well, we had been drinking. No one joins me, so I take that to mean my voice is so beautiful that they don‘t dare mar my artistry.) I don’t recall who paid for the taxi, but I’m assuming someone did. Or maybe he just threw our asses out to be rid of us.

  So we’re standing on Mulberry Street. Terry has done something fancy with his phone that resulted in directions being downloaded. (Technology will save us all!) We stagger down the lane, managing to not kill anyone because our reflexes are really slow and the more-sober pedestrians we encounter are able to run really fast. We troop up to the designated address of the infamous restaurant from Terry’s former nirvana-like eating experience, our hearts beating with overwhelming anticipation.

  And we find that the building at said address is dark and empty.

  I think I cried, it was so emotionally devastating.

  But we recovered quickly. There were tons of restaurants on this street, most of them still open and quite happy to serve food to inebriated people who didn’t have any sense and were quite willing to part with some disposable income. Eventually, we all agreed on a nice Italian place that had tables spilling out onto the sidewalk. We took up residence and menus were immediately shoved into our hands. I think I cried, it was so emotionally supportive.

  (Side note: Italian restaurants are great when you’ve had too much to drink. There’s all this pasta, in just about every dish, and things get soaked up. Keep this in mind when you’ve been in a bar with dangerous drink specials and beverage-servers who wear very little clothing, and you suddenly realize that you might have gone over your personal limit and need to take recuperative measures.)

  Wiping saliva off our chins after perusing the menu, we placed our orders. Shortly, mounds of alcohol-countering delicacies were being slapped down before us. We jammed our heads into the feed trough, with sounds of satisfaction and delight soon echoing up and down the street. The massive carb intake worked its wonderful magic, and we made our way back from the land of Manic Frenzy and returned to the blissful environs of Mellow Reflection.

  It was a perfect feast, indeed.

  Yet even though we were now stuffed, sated and relatively sober, we ordered dessert as well. Something ridiculously rich, which you had to slowly savor, especially since we were so full that we could barely breathe.

  And that’s where I choose to end our time in the Bubble Bath. Good food, deepening night, attendant waiters, savory fare, delectable company, witty conversation, and memories that crystallize in a perfect fulcrum of happenstance. Tomorrow could be dealt with later.

  It’s all you can really ask for, right?


The end.

The Bubble Bath, Part 22

  Editor’s Note: We have just marched out of IHOP, fed up with their crappy service, but not FED. We had to get food in our bodies, soon, or we would be lashing at each other until someone cried and/or threw someone else in front of an oncoming bus…

  Luckily, our desperate march across the continent for a secondary food-serving establishment lasted roughly 3 minutes. Bubbles knew of a nearby place that she had sampled a time or two, and had pronounced it worthy. We headed in that direction, although we did pause to tell anyone who would listen that IHOP was the work of the Devil and by no means should you ever eat there again, especially if you didn’t care for bacon…

  This new diner, whose name I don’t recall but it seems like it started with an “A” (like “Amsterdam” or “Aborigine”, something) was one of those places that was either trying to do a retro-50’s look, or had really been around since then. Hard to tell. We piled into the place, and were soon greeted by a woman who clearly learned everything she knew about makeup from watching “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?” about 150 times. Except she was in color rather than black-and-white, and I can assure you that there is a startling difference.

  That aside, this woman proved to be our best friend, at least for the next hour. We shared our tale of woe about the IHOP down the street. Jane nodded knowingly, with that expression that certain, gossipy women have when they are pretending to not talk disparagingly about another person, place or thing, but they really are. “I’ve heard that you can wait a long time in that IHOP.” She promised us a much more pleasant experience.

  She took our orders, and the food was before us in less than five minutes.

  We loved her immensely, and we contemplated taking her with us when we left. In the end, we realized that her mission in life was to rescue other lost souls who had the misfortune to attempt eating at IHOP. This was a brave and noble career to have, and we really couldn’t mess with that kind of karma. But we tipped her as if we had discovered oil in the parking lot. We promised her we would write soon, a few tears were shed over our sad departure, and then we left.

  And thus began the discussion of What To Do For The Rest Of The Day.

  Bubbles was still strongly advocating for a run to New York City. Terry and I weren’t so sure about that. Granted, Bubbles did a great job with her promotional campaign, waving glossy brochures and such, especially when it concerned a certain locale known as “Splash”. It seems that the bartenders there only wore underwear. And on Monday’s, which this day happened to be, they also had Show-Tune Sing-Alongs. Partial frontal-nudity and queens whooping it up while Patti LuPone warbles on a giant screen? This was truly something that one should behold.

  But still, Terry and I were not keen about driving all the way to the city for only a few hours of entertainment and then, more importantly, driving all the way BACK to Philly when we were tired and still a bit tipsy. Bubbles swore that she would be the designated driver and only imbibe lightly. (A little voice inside of me instantly spoke up, warning that Bubbles was a lying wretch and the night would quickly turn into a nightmarish vision of hooliganism and tattered couture.)

  But Terry and I weakened, worn down by Bubbles’ professional ability to manipulate and cajole her surroundings into a situation that was more personally satisfying, and we eventually agreed.

  A short while later, we were on the road again. Willie Nelson might have been proud of this development, but I was still a bit anxious. Not wanting to spoil the jocular mood of the journey, I simply sat in the back of the car, mute, endlessly buffeted by the G-force winds screaming through the open windows and pinning me to the back seat. At any moment, I expected Armageddon and anguished wailing to begin.

  This did not immediately happen.

  Instead, we rolled into Jersey City, where we briefly visited with a friend of Bubbles in the apartment building where she used to live.  During this visit, Bubbles startled me by snatching up the infant child of said friend and shoving him into my arms, forcing me to deal with the lively bundle of joy. For some reason, the tiny tyke took to me, cooing approvingly, and thus we bonded forever.

  Of course, our conversation was a bit limited, having relatively little in common. He spoke glowingly about the joys of discovering, every morning, that he did, in fact, have toes. I shared with him that Uncle Brian was off to consume alcohol and watch nearly-naked men dance. He explained that he didn’t really have a reference point for such an experience, and didn’t quite fathom my anticipation, but if it made me happy, like his toes did for him, well, then, he was all for it.

  We left Bubbles’ car parked at Little Bit and His Mommy’s house, and walked to the subway. A short while later, we were climbing up to the street and working our way toward “Splash”, this supposed beacon of mild decadence and Broadway vocalizations. We slipped inside, and began partaking of the “two-for-one” drink specials. It was still a little early, so the place wasn’t packed by any means, but there were already quite a few people in there.

  Within five minutes, Bubbles was on a first-name basis with all of the bartenders and most of the patrons. Five minutes after that, she had been invited by various people to join two different law firms, manage a hedge fund, live for three months free at a small mansion in the Hamptons, and tour Europe. For my part, I managed to score us an extra bowl of peanuts. In the grand scheme of things, I think our accomplishments were fairly equal.

  Now, about this wearing of the underwear by the bartenders. I must say, it was quite refreshing, and grew increasingly more so as additional glasses of alcohol were shoved my way. Of  course, none of these guys were wearing any type of underwear that you could find at Wal-Mart. Nope, these were designer editions that conformed, supported, emphasized and enticed. I really didn’t care about the show-tune singing anymore.

  Bubbles was right there with me, mesmerized, which was fun. On the down side, Bubbles cannot quietly do anything. It’s just not her nature. So she feels compelled to yell out “Can’t stop lookin’ at em, can you?” so half the bar turns to gaze upon the Texas rednecks that don’t know how to review a parade of barely-clad man-tackle with any type of class. Great. Now I’m conscious of people watching me watch the floor show, which sucks a large portion of the fun out of it. Thanks, Bubbles. Don’t be surprised if you suddenly tumble off that barstool and I don’t help you up.

  Luckily for Bubbles’ healthcare plan, the show tunes started up, with video clips splashing across the big-ass monitors they have all over the place. Next thing you know, half the bar is singing along and you can no longer hear your wallet emptying out as you pay for continual rounds of drinks. Life was good. Or at least musical.

  Then the Architects showed up.

  I’m not sure where they came from. This was probably explained to me at some point, but it didn’t register. What did get through the alcohol barrier into my brain was the fact that these guys were, indeed, actual architects. With degrees and all that mess. This thrilled me. I love architecture. Of course, loving architecture and being an architect for a living are two entirely different things. And it’s fair to say that my vodka-soaked brain had no idea what this difference might be.

  What my brain DID know was that I must converse at length with these guys, regardless of whether or not they felt a reciprocal need. So there I am bellowing into their ears (Miss Jennifer Holliday was blasting on the sound system, but I probably would have bellowed anyway) about form and function and whatever else popped into my head. Since these conversations went on for quite some time, I was either able to hold my ground with the discourse or the New Yorkers were fascinated by my drunken Texas idiocy.

  In any case, the Architects had a secondary impact on our little trio, in that we were inspired anew to keep slugging back the drinks. This was completely unnecessary, as we were well-oiled by this point, but common sense sort of went out the door when we first spied the underwear-sporting bartenders. Complicating all this was that pesky “two-for-one” business. We kept forgetting that we had that second free drink coming, and would order another round. A backlog soon developed, but we gamely proceeded to plow through everything.

  Before too much longer, we were smashed.

  This became abundantly clear when, after a misunderstanding concerning exactly what had transpired in the last fifteen minutes during an intricately-choreographed round of bathroom visits and dashes outside to smoke, Terry and I began yelling at each other, convinced that each of us had been slighted in some profound way. We had moved beyond convivial social drinking into the realm of surfaced anger that had little to do with anything. Belligerence had arrived, that unwelcome product of excess. Drastic measures were now in order.

  We had to get something in our stomachs. After all, the only thing we’d had to eat for the last several hours had been peanuts, and most of them had been dropped when one of the bartenders would bend over and reach for something on a lower shelf. We needed some soakage.

  So there are happy asses went, piling out the door of “Splash” and heading into the night in search of sustenance, hoping to sop up some alcohol before we were annoyingly arrested for public indecency or, far worse, for not remembering all the words to “I Feel Pretty” from West Side Story…


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The Bubble Bath, Part 21

  Editor’s Note: We’re still sitting at IHOP, waiting for our food to arrive, which apparently might not happen in our lifetime. I have just overheard what I think is a drug deal taking place at the table behind me. Terry thinks I’m just operating in my usual drama queen mode and has little interest in validating my delusions…

  Me: “I’m serious. Something is going down.”

  Terry: “That’s nice. Do you think we should paint the bedroom mocha or latte?”

  Me: “You never believe me about anything.”

  Terry: “What would be the point? You’re just going to change your mind in the next five minutes.”

  Just then, the good server comes racing into the room with steaming plates of food for all her customers. Customers that came into the restaurant after we did. And where might our server be? Who the hell knows. Maybe she ran to fetch the drugs that her boss is selling alongside the Rooty, Tooty, Fresh and Fruity.

  I sigh. “I’m going outside for a cigarette. I’m sure I have plenty of time.” Terry nods absently, his mind working on painful ways to torture Gertrude should she decide to ever come back.

  I pass through the little lobby area, and notice that Mayflower, the decaying hostess wretch, is propped up against the wall, probably waiting for someone to apply electrified paddles to her chest. She briefly glances at me, and I can tell by her eyes that she hates everyone in this building and wants all of them to die. I hear ya, sister.

  Once I’m out the front doors, I wander around to the side of the building to do my business. (I’m one of those people who try to be considerate with my dirty habits, not one of those losers who will stand right there in a high-traffic area, belching exhaust on innocent families and then wondering why people spit on them. It’s no surprise that NYC has basically banned smoking in any place where anyone might possibly want to breathe.)

  So I’m doing my thing, waiting for the nicotine to flood my body and trick my brain into thinking I actually enjoy my life. I glance to the left, where I spy two men sharing a wrinkled, brown bag that obviously contains a bottle of hooch. I consider joining them. Seriously. I don’t care that we might transmit germs to one another. (The alcohol would kill most of that mess anyway.) But what actually stops me from sauntering over is the prospect of having to talk to another human being, which is the last thing in the world I want to do right now.

  I turn my head in the other direction and, lo and behold, there’s Bubbles traipsing toward me, her happily-tended toes putting a spring in her step. As she comes even with me on the sidewalk, her perceptive analytical skills kick into gear, and she immediately senses something amiss. “Spill.”

  “Well, we’re still waiting on our food.”

  Her mouth drops open. “You’re kidding me!” She reflects briefly, then advises: “I’m gonna run into this shoe store over here for a sec, then I’ll meet you inside.” Translation: If we still don’t have our food when Bubbles completes her footwear transaction, she is going to march into IHOP and burn the mother down.

  I stab out my cigarette, check to make sure it’s really dead, chunk it in a nearby trashcan, and then race into the restaurant to tell Terry the news. Bubbles is gonna whup some ass and we’ll be in the front row! Woo hoo!

  But before I can share all the juicy details, a parade of servers comes marching into our neglected room, all of them carrying bulging bags full of to-go boxes. They pile these on a spare, empty table near the loudmouth in the corner, then they all turn and march back into their holding pen while the restaurant manager slips into the room as well and approaches Don Bigmouth. “Your order is ready.”

  Dang. So it wasn’t a drug deal after all. Just some really hungry people. Not that I’m a fan of illicit recreational merchandising, but it had been a little exciting to think I was this close to activities that could send somebody to the Big House. Terry just looked at me. See? Food. Not drugs. You really need to quit watching “X-Files” reruns.

  Amazingly, Gertrude, our server that we had assumed had fled the country for political reasons, actually made another appearance. She explained that the kitchen was really backed up because someone (she glanced at her manager with obvious distaste) had allowed someone else (she glanced at Don Bigmouth with even more dissatisfaction) to order 20 meals for takeout.

  Oh. I see. But that’s not really our problem, now is it? Where’s our food? She went to check, as if something miraculous might have taken place during the fifteen seconds since the last time she had been in the kitchen.

  Then we descended into madness.

  The jerk in the corner, Don Bigmouth, was chowing down on his meal along with his silent but devoted groupies. Suddenly, Bigmouth discovered something on his plate that was completely unacceptable, leading to the following dialogue. (Keep in mind that Bigmouth is also Trashmouth, and there has been a bit of tidying up with the language.)

  Bigmouth, bellowing: “There’s gosh-durn bacon on my truckin’ plate!”

  His homies wail and clutch at their faces, horrified at this utter outrage.

  Bigmouth, yelling across the room at a server that is NOT his: “Get the truckin’ manager right NOW.” (Said server looks at Bigmouth dully, sighs, then slowly ambles out of the room. Apparently this type of discourse was common for this restaurant, so she did not have any urgency concerning her rudely-given directive.)

  Bigmouth, bellowing: “There’s truckin’ bacon on my gosh-durn plate!”

  Thank you for the clarification. I don’t think Brazil heard you the first time.

  The manager appears, his face slightly pale and sweaty. He gulps and approaches Bigmouth’s table. And Bigmouth explodes with a fury. Big is beyond upset about the porcine surprise, compelling him to cuss out the food, the server, the manager, the restaurant, the city, the state, and anyone who has ever spoken approvingly of pork in their entire lives. This goes on for quite some time.

  During all this mess, I surreptitiously fake-stretch and glance over my shoulder to get a visual, fully expecting to see half a pig lying across the table behind me, an apple in its mouth. Instead, Big is jabbing at something with his fork, a little speck of meat that even ants wouldn’t bother to tote back home. “Don’t tell me that’s not bacon!” challenges Bigmouth, his homies nodding their heads and pointing.

  Bigmouth really likes repetition: “I said, don’t tell me that’s not bacon.” (Look, no one is disputing the bacon status. Geez.) “I don’t eat bacon. I know what it tastes like. THAT’S bacon!” (But if you don’t eat bacon, how would you…) “It’s bacon!” he practically screamed. “Bacon!”

  Well, yes, it’s probably bacon, but if that tiny thing is going to bother you, you might as well never leave the house. Because there are much bigger disappointments out there. Of course, I don’t vocalize any of these thoughts. After all, Big is waving a pronged weapon and has enough adrenaline and/or drugs coursing through his veins that he could chew rocks. Besides, it’s really not my place.

  It’s the manager’s place. Yes, you should placate the customers. But you should not allow them to disrupt civilization as we know it. However, the manager did not understand this, letting Big scream for a good 10 minutes before finally wandering away. Which was exactly enough time for the big hand on the clock to reach the same number it had been on when we walked into this place.

  We had been sitting here for an hour. And still no food.

  Terry and I looked at each other. “We’re done,” we said at the same time, and started gathering up our things.

  Right on cue, Bubbles walked in the front door. She didn’t even bother to head in our direction. She took one glance at our table, quickly noted the absence of any plates, and immediately cornered Mayflower at her little hostess desk, demanding to speak to the manager. Mayflower just kind of shrugged, nodded her head at the pale, sweaty guy just leaving our room, and then went back to giving herself CPR. Bubbles walked up to the manager and launched. Terry leapt out of our booth to go express his thoughts on the matter as well. I scampered to keep up with him, not wanting to miss any of this.

  So there we were in the entryway of the IHOP. Bubbles and Terry were ripping this guy a new one, arms flailing. I was just standing there, trying not to grin as I pretended to be emotionally distraught. The manager was a total wimp, proffering weak, feeble excuses about the slow service, the lack of food, and how he had gotten to this pathetic point in his life.

  Then he stupidly said this to Mayflower: “Don’t charge them for their drinks.”

  What! Of course you’re not going to charge us for the drinks. That even got ME riled up, and I usually don’t say anything, ever. Now Bubbles, Terry and I were tag-teaming with the invectives.

  And wouldn’t you know it, right then Gertrude came wandering up with our plates of food, confused because we weren’t where she left us yesterday.

  But we were done. We stomped out the front doors, triumphant that we had stood up to The Man and given him an earful. We were noble warriors, fighting for justice.

  Then we paused on the sidewalk. We may be the Norma Rae’s of our generation, but we were also still truckin’ hungry.

  Gosh-durn it.


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The Bubble Bath, Part 20

  Editor’s Note: After a crazed morning of running about Bubble’s Pleasure Palace, we finally get our act together and head out the door to begin our adventures…

  We head to some part of Philly (no idea) where Bubbles’ fave pedicure place could be found. (Apparently they do something exquisite there involving hot rocks. I did not seek any further detail.) We toss her out in front of the building, then drive just a block or so away to the illustrious IHOP serving this particular neighborhood.

  Upon entering this fine establishment, we should have known right away that something was amiss. The serving hostess looked like she may have arrived in this country on the Mayflower, poor thing. But she still had some energy left, grabbing two menus and creaking her way into one of the dining rooms.

  A room which I immediately hated, because a small child, strapped in a highchair that clearly wasn’t restraining him enough, was banging on his table while his mother (or guardian or kidnapper) was completely ignoring him. And, of course, the Mayflower Madam seated us right next to the miniature Ringo Starr. Once the little urchin realized he had an audience, he kicked it up a notch. Mom continued to pretend that she had never given birth and was not responsible for his actions.

  The pounding continued for some time, with the expression on Terry’s face changing from mild irritation to “we are three seconds away from you having to bail me out of jail”. During the lengthy drum solo, the server supposedly assigned to our table chose to remain hidden from view. Perhaps she didn’t want to upstage the budding young drummer, but most likely she just didn’t care about things like timeliness and good tips.

  The drummer finally took a break and went to hang out with his groupies and try to score some dope. Decades later, the server finally came wandering in, looking as if the weight of her world made it unbearable for her to smile or brush her hair. She indifferently took our drink orders and wandered off again. If we had been thinking clearly, we would have equipped her with a GPS tracker before she left.

  Then Mayflower came back in, leading another innocent couple into the bowels of Hell. She promptly seated them on the other side of the diminutive drummer (who appeared to be gearing up for another session), despite other available tables, proving that Mayflower was, in fact, Satan’s bitch. Once the new sacrificial family was seated, May then marched to some other room, presumably to drink the blood of virgins.

  I watched the new couple briefly, as they excitedly perused their menus in anticipation of a glorious and refreshing meal. I thought about warning them that if they planned on eating today, they might not be in the best place, because the wait staff was totally lackadaisical and mostly AWOL. Just then, another server appeared, perfectly coiffed and smiling. She rushed to the new couple, welcomed them like long-lost family members (there might have even been hugs, I couldn’t see all that clearly because Tiny Drummer was flailing away again, his arms a blur), took their drink order, raced to retrieve the beverages, returning with them in 2.5 seconds, and then began taking the actual food order with sparkling and witty professionalism.

  This wasn’t fair. Why did we always get stuck with the servers who have no idea what their job description might be?

  Meanwhile, Mayflower, still making her way out of the room because she was ancient and being outpaced by dust bunnies rolling across the floor, was stopped in her tracks by loud bellowing from the drummer’s indifferent mother. May turned to see who was making all the racket, realized that the idiot woman with the unruly child was demanding her attention, sighed, and began hobbling back in our direction.

  Eventually Mayflower made it to the adjacent table (I’m surprised she remembered where she was going when she finally got there), leaned on the table to catch her breath, glanced with dismay at the still-pounding child, then turned her weary eyes to the shrieking harridan. “Yes?”

  Medusa: “I want you to move us to another table.”

  Mayflower, somewhat perplexed (did little Damien not find the acoustics of the room satisfactory for his wretched drumming?): “Is there something wrong?”

  Medusa: “I don’t want to sit here. Move me.”

  Mayflower, knowing full well that everybody in this room already wanted Medusa to die a painful death, didn’t really see the point in pissing off a whole other room of patrons and did not relish performing the relocation: “Has your service not been satisfactory?”

  Medusa: “It’s been fine. I just want to move. I have my own reasons.”

  Then this societal hemorrhage actually had the gall to turn and glare at ME.

  What the hell? I hadn’t done anything. Yes, I had given her looks of complete hatred and disgust, but I hadn’t said a word, even when her demon offspring had hurled a spoon against the wall, nearly decapitating another diner. This was unreal.

  Mayflower sighed. “Fine. Follow me.” She turned once more, bones creaking, and began to shuffle out of the room. Medusa snatched up her startled hellion, glared at me once more, then fell in line behind the Little Engine That Shouldn’t. Eons later, they finally made it out the door. Two minutes after that, the incessant drumming started up again in a distant setting. Three people thundered by our room, headed for the exit and wiping white gravy off their chins.

  Our own worthless server eventually made another appearance, lugging our two glasses, which she clunked down on the table. (Getting them wrong, of course. I quietly moved the glasses to the correct consumer.) The ice was already half-melted, indicating the glasses had been sitting somewhere for quite some time. Perhaps our server, partaking in a smoke break, stumbled across them sitting on the sidewalk outside and decided they would work just fine for our table.

  Our server, now christened Gertrude for no other reason than I’m already tired of typing “our server”, lethargically pulled out a pad of paper, clicked a pen into the ready position, and then just stood there, waiting.

  Okay, apparently we needed to place our order now. Thanks for the excellent communication skills, Gertie.

  Terry made his first attempt at a selection. Gertrude batted this down, mumbling something about his choice being on the breakfast menu, and we had rolled into the official lunch menu, having been sitting here since the Gettysburg Address. Terry pointed at something else, and Gertrude nodded slightly to indicate that this would be an acceptable alternative. She scribbled and then looked at me.

  Weak with hunger, I limply fingered something non-breakfasty and received clearance. Gertrude pivoted and marched away, surprising me by moving rather quickly. Perhaps it was time for another smoke break, since it had been a whole 10 minutes since her last one.

  Next we had what looked like a manager type staggering into the room. (Perhaps he was trying to find out what Medusa could possibly have found offensive in here, prompting her to sally forth and terrorize other parts of the building.) He made a beeline to a table in the corner, where some guy had been barking on his phone the entire time we had been here. (Phone Guy really loved using profanity. Not that it bothers me, per se, but dude, how many times can you say “truck dat” in the same conversation?)

  Phone Guy was also one of those people who don’t understand the rudeness of continuing to carry on a conversation with someone who is NOT here, when there are people who ARE here, like the glum-looking buddies at his table or the manager standing at the end of his table and clearing his throat. Phony finally told “dawg” to hold up. He pointed his finger at one of his buddies, who instantly leapt up and allowed the manager to slide into his place on the booth.

  The following conversation took place in very hushed tones. If they hadn’t been so subdued about it, I wouldn’t have cared or tried to listen. But the subterfuge got my attention. Besides, I had already played with every single thing on the table and I was bored out of my skull.

  Phony:  “Sup?”

  Manager: “I think I can do it. But I normally don’t like to do this in the store.”

  Phony: “You want the money or not?”

  Manager, briefly looking around, as if concerned that someone might run in the room at any moment and strike him with an improvised weapon: “Yes. But we’re very busy right now. Might take a minute.”

  Phony, muting “dawg” on his phone, who had chosen that moment to start babbling about “snatch” to somebody we couldn’t see and probably wouldn’t like: “How much?”

  Manager, super quiet now: “200 dollars.”

  Phony, un-muting “dawg” and waving away the manager in a dismissive manner: “Done. Do it.”

  OMG. There was nothing on the menu that could even begin to approach that amount of money. Something else was going on. Clearly, I had just been privy to a negotiation with dubious implications.

  I tried to tell Terry. “Dude, I think I just overheard a drug deal.”

  Terry, abandoning the straw wrapper that he had been fiddling with: “What?” (To be fair, his ears were probably still ringing from that horrid child and his dark need for beating the hell out of diner tables.)

  Me, whispering: “Behind us. I. Think. They. Just. Made. A. Drug. Deal. Word.”

  Terry just stared at me as if I had lost my mind. Again.


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The Bubble Bath, Part 19

  Editor’s Note: After a mind-expanding experience with an Inversion Table, courtesy of the cutting-edge Bubbles, we retired for the evening, intent on getting some much-needed sleep before we embarked on our last full day in Philly. Turns out we didn’t actually stay in Philly, but more on that as things progress…

  I awoke the next morning, rather refreshed, but clearly a bit behind schedule, as I could hear Bubbles and Terry on the lower floor, banging about and most likely making detailed plans to alter the course of history. These things happen when you leave them without supervision.

  Terry noticed that I was awake, probably due to the horrified wail of despondency I unleashed when I caught sight of myself in a mirror, and he trotted up the stairs. He had an agenda update. “We’re going to eat at IHOP while Bubbles gets a pedicure.”

  This was news. Neither of these options had been on the table when I laid my weary head to rest. I immediately sensed that this change of plans had something to do with Bubbles consuming the high-octane coffee that she insists on brewing, because one sip of that mess can make you see Napoleon Bonaparte hiding behind a potted fichus tree.

  I leisurely rolled over in the bed, since I was in one of those moods where you just want to remain wrapped up in comfy bed linens, and stare at the ceiling for hours, choosing a life of non-productivity. Okay, I’m always in that mood. But anyway. “Really? So I have to get dressed?”

  “Yep. Jump in the shower and we’ll go.” He exited stage left and returned to giggling and plotting with Bubbles.

  I flopped onto my back. Some day, I promised myself, I would find a career where I never had to leave the bed but did not involve intimate relations with paying customers. I’m sure that type of job is out there, I just haven’t searched the Internet enough. Because that’s hard to do when you don’t want to get out of bed.

  After several more minutes of making dramatic sighs that no one was listening to, I hauled my ass out of bed and wandered into Bubbles’ bathroom to attend to things.

  Now, I haven’t mentioned it as of yet, but there’s a certain feature about Bubbles’ comfort station that I must now address. Namely, the door to this chamber of extremely personal activity. Because there really isn’t one.

  Oh sure, there’s been an attempt to ensure privacy. But this attempt is basically a folding door that doesn’t quite slip into place in a satisfactory manner. A folding door. Not a robust, solid door that one can slam shut and lock out unwelcome eyes, ears and random sexual deviants. Nope, we have a structurally-suspect bit of folding wood that does little to instill a sense of personal freedom and relaxation.

  Now, due to the unique layout of Bubbles’ abode, I fully understand why someone chose to install a folding door at some point in the history of the dwelling. The bathroom is located in a slightly-odd manner, abutting a fairly narrow walkway leading to the master suite. If a real door had been utilized, and you weren’t paying attention as you exited the privacy chamber, you could easily knock an unsuspecting visitor over the railing of the walkway. They would then plummet to the lower floor, creating an unsavory, bloody mess that might make people avoid consuming the tasty hors d’oeuvres you had spent hours preparing for the dinner party.

  This simply wouldn’t do. Ergo, the folding door, which was less likely to cause body displacement and humans falling from the sky, disrupting otherwise benign after-dinner conversation.

  However, the folding door did not prove a soothing balm to someone like me, who has issues with anyone overhearing my attempts at recycling. I don’t want people to be aware of my doing that. I want them to think that I have had this activity outsourced, and that someone in another country is doing Number Two for me. That’s just my thing.

  In essence, because of the folding door, I basically had not contributed to the Circle of Life since we arrived in Philly. Couldn’t do it. People could hear, and thus things slammed shut. I would try, of course, but no one on the assembly line was willing to cooperate, and union stewards were filing grievances about the unsatisfactory working conditions.

  Now, I could tinkle with complete freedom, no issues there. But that leads us to yet another complicating factor for this morning in question. The previous night, Terry and Bubbles had slipped off to bed a bit before I did. I had stayed up, working on yet another blog post, because that’s what I do with half my life. I eventually reached a stopping point and decided to join my slumbering family.

  But first, before slipping into bed, I needed to release the last bit of beer I had consumed. So I slipped into the facilities, did my thing, and then tried to exit the comfort station.

  The door was stuck.

  What the hell?

  I jiggled and wiggled the thing, trying to be discreet because the house was now silent and people were in dreamland. But I soon surmised that my subtle escape attempt was getting nowhere.

  Frustrated, I gave the door an especially strenuous tug.

  And the door slipped out of the sliding track thing and was only still standing up because I was holding the knob in my hand.

  I took a deep breath. Things weren’t that bad, all I had to do was get the door back into the track, and then run like hell. But that wasn’t in the cards. No matter what I did or tried, the freaking door would not go back in the track. I pushed and pulled and cussed. Nothing. And I was really making a lot of racket. At some point, Bubbles or Terry was bound to wake up, firmly convinced that Satan was in the bathroom and ready to take our lives.

  So I finally gave up. And left the folded door propped against the door jamb. Really nice of me, right? Very considerate. But what was I supposed to do? Wake Bubbles up in the middle of the night, hollering about tearing up her house? That really wasn’t necessary. She’d certainly figure it out in the morning.

  And I went to bed.

  Flash back/forward to the next morning. Bubbles and Terry are downstairs, waiting for me to get my ass moving so we can eat and Bubbles can have her toes pampered. My digestive system is so backed up at this point that I’m waddling. I’m miserable, and I haven’t had any coffee.

  I peek out of the bedroom door.

  The folding door for the bathroom is miraculously back on the track, most likely courtesy of Bubbles, so it’s apparently not the first time said door has proven to be a challenge for drunken idiots. I slipped into the bathroom and very tenderly slid that door closed.

  I almost skipped the morning constitutional, because really, what was the point? Things were not going to happen, not until I was back in Texas, that’s just how things went. But just as I reached to turn on the shower, a telegraphed message was received at company headquarters. Incoming. Incoming NOW.

  Oh?

  Well, then. I could hear Bubbles and Terry, still downstairs, still laughing and running around and apparently occupied. Maybe I could do this. Maybe, for once in my life, I could get this done quickly without all the trauma and straining.

  I assumed the position.

  And yes, we appeared to be on an express track. We had bubbling and gurgling. All systems go.

  So, of course, right at that moment, both Terry and Bubbles decided to thunder up the stairs, laughing and carrying on and hollering for me to hurry the hell up because they were HUNGRY.

  The portal slammed shut.

  Just shoot me now. Please.


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The Bubble Bath, Part 18

  Editor’s Note: I’m upstairs at Bubbles’ House of Intrigue and Strong Wills, with Bubbles about to teach me the art of inversion…

  Me: “You want to show me what? And why?”

  Bubbles continues to smile, because it always pleases her when she knows more about something than her semi-captive audience. “We’re going to use the Inversion Table. Just watch.”

  So I watch.

  She moves the giant contraption to a more observable section of the room. For the most part, this thing looks like a door on wheels, with some interesting metal bits sticking out here and there that might be controls of some kind or just meaningless distractions to make the thing look more intimidating. Bubbles proceeds to talk me through the process.

  “Okay, you step up on these things here, and then you lean against the board.” She does this, placing her delicate feet on two of the metal protrusions and laying against the death slab. “Then you lock yourself in,” which means she fiddles with some leg clamps that would look more at home on a 1930’s electrocution chair. Once secured, she starts to tilt the table back. “Then you just find your center of gravity, and use that to control the movement.”

  Easy for her to say. She’s not even five feet tall. Her entire body is a center of gravity.

  Nevertheless, she adjusts her position a bit, and then suddenly she is upside down. A belly is exposed, breasts are flopping everywhere, and toes are pointing at the ceiling. It’s like something on the Nature Channel where they run a crawler at the bottom of the screen that perhaps children should not be watching this. You know, like when the praying mantis eats her mate.

  “See?” asks Bubbles, her vocals only slightly restricted by the fact that everything is all in the wrong place. “It’s easy!”

  Not so sure about that.

  Bubbles wriggles around a bit. “You have to twist from side to side to let your spine stretch out.”

  Let me spine stretch out? How is that possibly a good thing?

  Bubbles now makes cooing noises to indicate that stretching has been accomplished, and that there might have even been an unintentional orgasm.

  THAT part gets my attention. Maybe I will try this after all.

  “Now,” further explains the upended Bubbles, “you can’t stay this way for too long, because the blood rushes to your head.” (And you die?) She adjusts her body once more, and then expertly flips back upright. Her face is slightly flushed, but she appears otherwise unharmed. “Now you try it.” She reaches down to unleash her imprisoned feet.

  Well, I don’t know about this. But I have just enough lingering alcohol in my system from our earlier time at the sports bar that my judgment is properly affected. I approach the death machine.

  I step up on the foot pegs and lean against the board. I try to close the foot clamps, but something seems to be amiss, and Bubbles has to assist and investigate. I hadn’t realized up until this point that I have overly large feet and ankles that were not part of the master plan of the Inversion Table designers. Adjustments must be made. Happily, we eventually achieve secure-foot status.

  I start to lean back.

  It immediately doesn’t feel right, like I’m doing something that would cause concerned relatives to shriek in fear and call a priest. Then again, of course it shouldn’t feel right or natural. I’m forcing my body into a position that defies the standard concepts of human behavior.

  I take a deep breath, try to relax, and inch my way backwards. It’s rather uneventful at first, until I reach the point where my head is lower than my legs. Then wackiness ensues. You have to keep squirming about on the board to distribute your weight in the proper manner or you won’t go all the way down. So I squirm. And I contort. And I regret ever having agreed to this dumb-ass experiment.

  Eventually, I’m mostly upside down. But there’s a glitch. My head is touching the floor (kind of thinking that’s not right) and my neck is bent at an angle that would have most chiropractors praying to Jesus for guidance (and I know that’s not right). Something smells really fishy in Denmark.

  Bubbles provides an assessment. “Maybe we need to adjust the foot things so your head doesn’t bang on the floor.”

  Ya think?

  Since I’m supremely uncomfortable, I don’t clearly hear Bubbles advise that “you really don’t want to come up too fast.” And so I come up too fast. So now I’m dizzy and I have splinters in my head. So far, this is not something that I would recommend to anybody, even people I can’t stand.

  Bubbles rushes in to make mechanical adjustments. She fiddles with this and that, and suddenly my feet slide lower on the contraption. I’m really not very invested in playing this game anymore, but at the same time, I don’t want Bubbles to think lesser of me for not giving things a solid try. And I’m still tipsy.

  So here we go again, with me slowly leaning back, wiggling my body around, and trying to control the gravitational pull. It’s much easier this time, so there truly is a learning curve, I’ll admit to that. The key component is to just relax. Easier said than done, but still.

  With this round, I’m able to flip upside down with plenty of head clearance. This encourages Bubbles. “Now lift your arms over your head and lay them on the floor.”

  I do. And an odd, partially-satisfying sensation ripples through my body. Oh?

  Bubbles continues. “Now, twist from side to side.”

  This I do as well. And the snaps and crackles from my spine would make you think Orville Redenbacher was whipping up a batch of popcorn. And it feels glorious beyond description. A release that I never knew existed.

  I’m in love.

  And Bubbles knows it. Grinning wickedly, she advises. “Okay, come back up slowly. SLOWLY!”

  I comply. I feel half a foot taller and very, very happy with life.

  Once released, I holler down the stairs to Terry. “Bubbles just gave me six inches!”

  Stunned silence from the lower chambers.


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The Bubble Bath, Part 17

  Editor’s Note: We’re still in that sports bar on a Sunday afternoon in Philly. The bartender has attempted to make a vodka gimlet, something that no one in this city has ever heard of or seen. I am now sampling his creation…

  And it tastes like total crap. Oh well, he tried.

  I smile grimacingly at Belinda the server. “That’ll work.” She beams and scampers back to report the false positive news to Scotch and his battered book of bartender secrets. They seem awfully giddy and happy with themselves, so I slightly regret giving them the encouragement to think they can actually do something important with their lives.

  Bubbles looks at me. “He didn’t do it right, did he?”

  “Nope.” I brace myself for another sip of the foul brew, continuing my pointless charade. I’m continually lying to people just so they don’t feel bad. To this day, certain co-workers and family members think that I actually like them when I really don‘t. Perhaps some day I’ll snap and tell the truth to everybody around me, but at this moment in my life I haven’t taken enough prescription drugs to adequately prepare me for such an event.

  Luckily, despite what else the bartender has thrown into his mix of deception and desperation, he’s followed the age-old ploy of bartenders tasked with making a drink that is unfamiliar and possibly not even real: just throw in enough alcohol that the patron won’t care after a few swallows, because their tongue will have gone numb. Halfway through the drink, I once again loved everybody in the world. I even managed to pay minimal attention to the football games on the TV’s, because people were yelling a lot and that seemed like fun.

  So our little gang proceeded to spend a pleasant hour or two in a bar that we would probably never see again. This is the beauty of vacation drinking. You can basically do whatever you want, since most likely you will not make a return visit to the scene of your crimes and get to see the notice posted on the front door that you are no longer welcome, accompanied by a picture of you doing the lambada (“the forbidden dance!“) whilst waving a half-eaten burrito and drooling on yourself.

  The only incident of note during this otherwise carefree afternoon took place when I slipped outside to have a smoke. (This seemed to be a recurring theme during our visit to Philly. I slip outside to satisfy an addiction, and wackiness ensues.) This bar had a long, narrow patio area in front, facing the street, with the umbrella-sporting tables currently empty because of the crappy weather and the slight chill in the air. I politely marched to the far end of the patio, away from the entrance, because I really do try to be considerate when billowing clouds of carcinogens.

  Things went rather swimmingly for the first few minutes, as I relaxed and perused the passers-by on the sidewalk, again marveling at how fashion seemed to be completely irrelevant in this city. I also studied the immense older building across the street, covered in ornate detail, and speaking of a different time when grand buildings were the rule and not the exception.

  Then the family arrived.

  A younger couple, man and woman, with layered, slightly-bohemian clothing to ward off the nip in the air, pushing a baby stroller wherein was plunked a small child most likely of the male gender. The little tyke was also layered, although mostly with colorful blankets and toys that had been ignored since the day the boy was introduced to this means of transportation wherein he was basically bound and could not move.

  The couple came to a halt directly in front of me as I stood on the bar patio, close enough that I could have reached out and tapped my ashes into the beehive hairdo that the woman had found necessary to create for her familial outing. Then they just stood there, young Mortimer or whatever softly cooing in his cushy prison and gently flailing one arm about, a gesture that could mean simple contentment or was a directive to sell Verizon stock when it hit 35 bucks.

  This was mystifying. Why stop here, right in front of a man who is clearly smoking, when there were acres of unoccupied concrete in all directions? They weren’t reviewing the lovely example of architecture across the street, they couldn’t possibly be perusing the restaurant menu tacked to the front door because it was way over there, and I didn’t see any demarcations that this particular spot was designated as a waiting area for some type of public transportation.

  They just stood there, not saying a word. (Well, little Morty had a lot to say, but he was speaking in a language that I hadn’t used in quite some time. Besides, the tender urchin didn’t appear to require any responses to his babbling, secure in his conviction that all of his edicts would be immediately carried out by the giant people who served him, even if they didn’t know the correct way to drape a scarf on one’s shoulders.)

  Well, I felt a little awkward. After all, I was smoking, still had plenty of length left to my chemically-drenched tobacco stick, and therefore would be expelling more noxious vapors for the next several minutes. It didn’t seem right that I should be doing this near non-smoking people, especially when one of the trio had little control over his physical positioning in life, strapped in a carriage where Mommy insisted on hanging stupid animals that affected his peripheral vision and smelled like old formula.

  I quietly pretended to see something of interest in the distance, stepping off the patio and moving a good fifteen feet down the street, taking up a new stance near a currently closed shop that proffered artwork for sale “by appointment only” (translation: you can’t afford anything in here so just keep walking”). I continued my pretense by gawking at ugly, horrid oil paintings depicting flowers and inbred royalty sitting about in gold-leafed chambers, waiting for servants to lift the soup spoons to their mouths and then tilt their heads back so they could swallow.

  Amazingly, the couple released the parking brake on the baby carriage, and began to move in my direction. They stopped directly in front of me, once again, and just stood there, once again, not looking at me, but close enough that I could see a birthmark, shaped eerily similar to Australia, on the man’s neck. They continued to not speak.

  What was going on?

  Did they want to ask a question, but were simply too shy to utter the words? Were they interested in a three-way sexual tryst of some kind? (They obviously were familiar with the mechanics of exuberant slap-and-tickle, as evidenced by Exhibit A in the stroller, currently batting at one of the hated hanging animals and making hissing noises.) Did they perhaps want to adopt me, havin learned that little Exhibit had proven far too intrusive in their social agenda, and they were hoping to exchange for an older model that could be left to his own devices should someone call with exciting news of a wine-tasting weekend in Sonoma?

  I moved back to my original location on the patio.

  They followed, still with the not saying anything.

  I stabbed out my cigarette in a nearby soggy ashtray, blew my final gust of smoke directly up into the sky instead of downward into the lower altitudes where little Mortimer lived with his hated fringe of animals in nooses, faced the man, and cleared my throat. “Can I help you… with something?”

  He and the woman both looked at me quizzically, as if totally stunned that anyone was standing near them. (You’re kidding me, right?) The man studied my face, his own visage a complete blank. “No,” he muttered, and then both of them turned back around to resume staring at nothing.

  I sighed, marched back into the bar, and walked up to Bubbles at our table. “I just don‘t understand these Philly people.”

  Bubbles waved her hand in a dismissive manner. Been there, learned that. Then she continued telling Terry about the 1984 Prince concert that had changed her life in an interesting and miraculous way.

  Eventually we grew a little restive, packing up our things and heading back to Bubbles’ hacienda. (Along the way, we stopped at Target, and I have this to share about the chain of retail stores: A Target is a Target is a Target. It doesn’t matter where you go in the country, the same things are happening. Unsupervised children running and screaming like they have a bad case of worms, shifty people openly shop-lifting and glaring at you if you glare at them, and check-out lines where you should not be surprised if you find a used diaper shoved into the candy display.)

  Once at Bubble’s Love Shack, as were going about getting settled in for the evening, I was startled to hear Bubbles hollering for me to come upstairs to help her with something. Slightly concerned, because you never know with Bubbles, I headed up the creaky, time-worn wooden stairs to see what her issue might be.

  She was standing in her bedroom, next to a large, odd-looking contraption that was actually taller than her own body. She smiled brightly. “I’m going to show you how I invert myself, and then we can do you!”

  What in gay hell?


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The Bubble Bath, Part 16

  Editor’s Note: We have just entered a sports bar on a Sunday afternoon in Philly. We are fully expecting the upcoming experience to be a wild circus of testosterone and people who didn’t understand the concept of “inside voice”…

  This did not turn out to be the immediate case.

  Yes, there were several large TV’s scattered about, all of them showing men in various colors of tights knocking each other down in the interests of moving a football to this little area where you could do creative victory dances. I normally didn’t watch such stuff, but I knew enough to realize that the simple airing of these games usually caused people to bellow directives at the screen. This didn’t seem to be happening.

  In fact, the sprinkling of patrons in the bar seemed to be rather sedate, calmly watching the goings on whilst quietly sipping beverages. This was slightly unnerving. There should be boisterous behavior and back-slapping, not lethargic consumption of what looked like weak tea. Something was very wrong here.

  Troubled, we decided that perhaps we should distance ourselves somewhat from this dubious gathering of Stepford people, in case whatever they had was communicable and there was the possible risk of ours truly behaving ourselves in the same discreet manner. That simply wouldn’t do.

  We moseyed our way to a small group of tables on a long, slightly-raised platform running along the front windows of the establishment. This elevation factor satisfied our natural gay (and gay-friendly) tendencies to both dominate a room as well as arrange ourselves in a manner that allowed the regular folk to see how fabulously we lived. It’s just something that our people do.

  Once settled, we waited with anticipation for someone to arrive and see how they could satisfy us in a beverage-serving capacity. This took a bit longer than I really expected, getting dangerously close to a minimum-grade annoyance level. Finally, some woman wandered out of wherever they were storing her, and approached the table.

  She inquired if we might be interested in menus.

  We were not. No, we just wanted to drink. Thanks for checking, though.

  This relieved her somewhat, realizing that she wouldn’t have to transport hot plates across the massive expanse of the restaurant and then climb that dreaded single step up to our viewing platform. Well, then. How would us lovely people like to start off on our journey to inebriation?

  Bubbles and Terry announced their selections, and our server, who we’ll call Belinda, nodded sagely, as if they had made a smart choice that would allow them to live to see another day. Then she turned to me.

  “I’d like a vodka gimlet, please.”

  She looked at me as if I had just spoken disparagingly about her vagina. “Excuse me?”

  “A vodka gimlet.”

  She turned to Bubbles and Terry, deeply concerned. Apparently I was a foreigner visiting her beloved country, and I was having trouble with the language. Could one of them possibly assist with a translation?

  They could not, staring at me with same look as Belinda, as if I really shouldn’t be talking about personal orifices in such a manner, especially since we had just met Belinda and it was a bit unseemly of me to be so intimate.

  I sighed. “A vodka gimlet,” I repeated, as if repetition would somehow solve this impasse, and Belinda would suddenly be struck by a bolt of insight out of the overcast, slightly dreary Philly sky. Stranger things have happened. But not this time.

  Belinda reluctantly turned back to me, hesitant and a bit dismayed that I might start making more tribal gruntings that she did not understand. She did, however, remain professional in our conversation, trying to prepare me for possible devastation and loss concerning my request. “I’m not sure he can make that, but I’ll check.”

  By “he”, I’m assuming she meant the bartender, who was currently standing behind the nicely-carved wood of the bar, and staring at a bottle of Scotch in his hand, as if wondering how the mysterious item had managed to get there. My prospects were dim.

  Belinda hustled off to place our apparently-challenging drink order. Since the staff would most likely have to consult some reference material, or possibly even the Vatican, it might be a while before we could expect to quench our thirsts. So we turned to gaze out the windows and people watch for a bit until Belinda and Scotch could work on their intimidating task.

  Now, I am by no means a fashion expert. For years, my favorite attire has been an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt, preferably without a pocket, because I don’t care for my chest to be uneven. That’s it. So it’s really not my place to judge the efforts of folks who might want to gussy up a bit more.

  However, the parade of people passing by outside (and just WHERE were so many people going on a dreary Sunday afternoon?) had all apparently signed some type of clothing manifesto which required them to wear outfits that were starting to the eye. This was not just sloppiness or disinterest in their appearance.

  This was calculated couture abuse.

  Nothing matched. Nothing. None of them had ever heard of an iron, or hair product, or clothing that didn’t have a stain of some kind. Things were unbuttoned, torn, or generally disheveled. The general theme seemed to be that if anything you were wearing actually coordinated with anything else, then you were doing something unforgivably wrong.

  I tried to get Bubbles’ attention. “Am I really seeing this?”

  Bubbles couldn’t even tear her eyes away long enough to glance in my direction. “I told you I hate Philly.”

  Then a horrible thought struck me. What if I was so out of touch with current fashion that my sartorial sense had been irreparably damaged, leaving me adrift in a hopeless sea of non-worth and decay? Would there be eventual retribution? Would I have to surrender my gay card for failing to keep up with critical developments in Paris and Milan? I was nearly immobilized with fear and confusion.

  But that only lasted about three seconds and I was over it. When you get old, you just don’t care as much. About anything.

  There was a clatter and a clump as Belinda returned from the bar, bearing our drinks on a small serving tray and smiling bravely. She placed frosty offerings in front of Terry and Bubbles, and waited for them to sample such. They both did so, and then nodded approvingly. Of course their drinks were fine. They had had the decency to order things that people could recognize. I, however, had offended nature and mankind by speaking in an unknown dialect and requesting a drink formerly unknown on this planet.

  Belinda turned to me, still bravely smiling, although I could detect a bead or two of sweat on her otherwise unblemished forehead, her tender skin completely free of wrinkles because she was still young and hadn’t yet faced enough disappointments in life.

  She gently set my glass on the table and gave it a delicate push in my direction.

  Behind her, I could see Scotch pretending like he wasn’t leaning over the bar in anticipation of my review, even though he was. Gathered before him were roughly 700 bottles of liquors, liqueurs, and mixers, along with the remains of a lime that had clearly been violated in a societal uprising of some kind. So at least he had tried, and therefore I must show appreciation for his efforts. Even if the showing resulted in the frantic calling of medical authorities.

  I raised the glass to my lips…


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The Bubble Bath, Part 15

  Editor’s Note: We are dining at Pat’s King of Steaks in South Philly, munching on cheesesteaks. This is basically considered a sacred and profound experience by many…

  I pulled my head back from the trough and looked at Bubbles.

  She looked back, grinning. “Good, huh?”

  Oh, no. “Good” was simply far too benign a word to convey the truly orgasmic adventure I had just ridden. But my grease-numbed brain couldn’t even begin to think of a more appropriate adjective, so I contented myself with licking melted cheese off my sandwich wrapper. All of it, every speck. When I was finished with my thorough search and destroy mission, they could have re-used the wrapper and no one would have noticed a thing.

  Beside me, Terry made a small grunt, his eyes glassy. I’m fairly certain he had no idea what his name might be. Cher could have walked by right then, and he wouldn’t have even noticed.

  But all good things must be ripped from our lives eventually, so we were soon packing up and heading out. (Our departure was somewhat hastened by the hordes of people circling the building, impatiently waiting for a table to vacate.) We piled into the car, unable to fasten our seatbelts quite as snugly as on our previous excursions, and Bubbles pulled away from the curb. (The parking spot was instantly taken by a jeep bearing frat boys, all of whom leapt from the vehicle before it came to a stop, including the driver.)

  As we rolled away, Bubbles pointed out one of Pat’s competitors, a brightly-lit establishment named Geno’s, located on a nearby corner. She explained that some people preferred Geno’s over Pat’s. I didn’t see how they could. There was no way to improve on what we had just shoved in our mouths. Besides, if there actually was something out there in the world that actually tasted better, I didn’t think my taste buds could handle the overload. My mind would have snapped and I would have ended up living under a bridge and not bathing frequently. I didn’t relish the thought of explaining to occasional social workers that I was destitute because of an encounter with a cheesesteak.

  In any case, we found our way back to Bubbles’ House of Mirthly Delights, where we proceeded to consume alcoholic beverages, discuss very deep subjects that are even more profound when you have a buzz, and make fun of an infomercial where they were selling CD’s from some of country music’s pioneers. (The poorly-edited feature contained multiple shots of people performing at the Grand Ole Opry in those startling neon-and-sequins pantsuit outfits. If I hadn’t been drinking, I would have cried in fear.) A good time was had by all. Or at least me.

  The next morning brought an overcast sky and cooler temperatures. Bubbles was not particularly impressed with this development, but Terry and I were ecstatic. We had just come off a Texas summer with its notorious, soul-killing heat. We were quite happy to dash about with our nipples hardened from the slight chill. It’s the simple things, really.

  Not so simple? Deciding what we were going to do on that fine Sunday. Bubbles was still very much intent on dragging our asses to New York City. But we hadn’t seen the Liberty Bell. She wanted to go to Central Park. But we hadn’t seen the Liberty Bell. She wanted to take us to a bar in lower Manhattan where the bartenders only wore underwear. Slight pause while we reconsidered, then: But we still hadn’t seen the Liberty Bell.

  This was getting nowhere.

  Then Terry had an inspiring idea. Since it could rain at any moment, why not spend the day in Philly where we could zip back to Bubbles’ hacienda at any second, should it be necessary. Then we could spend the entire day tomorrow in NYC. Besides, if we go to the nearly-nudie bar when it’s cold, there could be critical shrinkage when it came to the floor show, and who wanted that?

  Fine. Bubbles reluctantly agreed to stay within the city limits of Philly, a place that she apparently hated with a surprising amount of passion and resentment. Perhaps someday we could psycho-analyze the root cause off all this negative emotion, but we really weren’t in the mood at the moment. So I kept Dr. Brian stuffed in his part-time box and we headed to downtown Philly and, basically, the birth of a nation.

  Now, to keep this from becoming a tome that can be quickly banned by the insipid Texas Textbook Selection committee because I still believe that our founding fathers really did exist, I’ll keep the historical commentary to a minimum. That Liberty Bell really is amazing, despite the fact that it’s not all that big. (And it’s not just a crack, it’s a big-ass gap that small children could practically run through.) There’s just something about actually seeing significant things that you’ve only read about. Do it whenever possible.

  North Church was fascinating. It’s really quite beautiful, especially for its time. Touching the actual pews where famous people sat hundreds of years ago is mostly thrilling and only slightly eerie. On the discomfiting side, didn’t really care for those flat gravestones IN the courtyard you have to navigate to gain access to the church. Not real crazy about walking on top of places where people are actually buried. I have no idea why they put those people there. Were these people really, really important, or were they very unpopular and thus planted in traffic zones?

  The Betsy Ross house was really surprising. For one, she and her family must have been really short. I was constantly bending over as I traipsed about. And what’s with the hundreds of staircases in that place? You couldn’t go in a straight line to any of the rooms, with all this trudging up and down through all the levels. It didn’t make any sense, especially since the house isn’t all that big. I don’t see how she had time to sew a flag, what with it taking 45 minutes just to get eggs from the cellar.

  And the fantastic architecture, everywhere you turned. It’s very trite of me to say that they don’t build things like they used to, but they don’t. In comparison, everything built today is just crap. My apologies to anyone offended by that statement, but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I want my buildings to be full of character. I don’t want them to look like a big, nondescript box with windows.

  Eventually, we grew a bit weary of wandering around and touching history. It was headed toward late afternoon, and we were, after all, on vacation. Time for beverages. Preferably in abundance, but we would just have to see how it goes. One never knows what will happen in the Bubble Bath.

  We found a place that looked cute and charming from the outside. Bubbles led the way inside a set of double doors, then just as quickly did an about-face and shoved us back outside, sharing some alarming news. “They have football games on all the TV’s.”

  Oh my. Gay men don’t do sports bars very well. It’s in the handbook. (Yes, we have those renegade gays that actually thrive in the machismo of such places, but the membership board has a dark plan in place to deal with those people.)

  I looked from Bubbles to Terry to Bubbles to Terry to a strange man that belched while passing on the street to Bubbles to Terry. “We could give it a try.”

  Total silence.

  I prodded them forward. “Oh, come on. How bad can it be?”

  And thus we entered the Philadelphia sports bar. Full of men. With about 50 different football games blaring. In Philadelphia. On a Sunday afternoon, the zenith point of football madness. In Philadelphia. Without protection.

  Oh God.


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The Bubble Bath, Part 14

  Editor’s Note: We have just arrived at Pat’s King of Steaks in South Philly, where apparently magical things can happen…

  But they’re not happening just yet. First we have to get out of the car and successfully make it to the sidewalk without being mowed down by waves of cars filled to the brim with hungry citizens. These people are fixated. They WILL make it to the next available parking space, even if several strangers have to lose important limbs and/or their loved ones. They don’t play.

  Once on the sidewalk, my initial estimation of the crowd size proves to have been a little on the conservative side. There are people everywhere, running about all crazy-eyed and knocking things over. As mentioned previously, I really don’t like people. They get on my nerves. I especially don’t like immense AMOUNTS of people who seem determined to get on my nerves. Yet I am constantly finding myself in situations where this very thing is happening. It’s my personal karma. I really must have been a bastard in a previous life.

  And I’m really not hungry. I’m just along for the ride, because Bubbles feels that we need to experience the Nirvana of Pat’s. I fully intend to quietly purchase whatever I’m supposed to get here, and then tuck it away for possible ingestion at a later time. If the other two want to eat, that’s fine. I’ll just stand off to the side and look bored, because I’m really good at that. And talking about people behind their back. Those are my two finest skills.

  I survey my surroundings, hoping to glean something of value so I can better understand exactly what is going on here. The rabid citizens seem to be involved in three types of activities. One involves standing in a line along one side of the building, where there are several windows and lots of people yelling things at one another. Why do they have to be so loud? And what language are they speaking? It seems I keep hearing the phrase “we zit” being bandied about profusely. We zit? That doesn’t make any sense, further adding to my confusion and dismay.

  Another group of people are huddled around what appears to be a majorly-serious condiment station. They are snatching and grabbing bits of this and that as if they don’t move fast enough the ground will simply open up and swallow them whole. And it seems perfectly fine if someone shoves someone else out of the way. If you get knocked aside, then you just dive back in, like a herd of piglets fighting to get at some sow’s teat.

  Finally, there are people sitting at the various tables placed about. The barnyard analogies continue, as these people are all making noises I haven’t heard since I used to help Peepaw gather eggs back on the farm as a budding young gay boy. No one at these tables is talking. They are just shoving things in their mouths and smacking. And belching. Really serious belching. As in explosive and ear-ringing. What has gotten into these people?

  I glance at Bubbles to confirm that she really wants to do this. She’s all smiles. Of course she does. Trust me, this is one of the finer things in life. But there’s a process to this, and we must follow protocol and there could be unsavory complications.

  Oh?

  She points to a large sign on one of the walls. It was entitled something like “How To Order” and listed eight or so rules that detailed your expected behavior. It was a lot of information to process. Apparently, a very important discussion point was whether you wanted onions (“wit”) or did not (“witout”). There was more commentary on selecting one of 500 different kinds of cheese toppings. Oh, and the mushroom factor. But the commandment that captured most of my attention? The one at the bottom that said “if you mess up, you have to go to the end of the line and start over”.

  What the hell?

  This was too much pressure. I turned to Bubbles again in abject fear. I’m not doing this. You have to order for all of us. I’m just going to follow along behind you, mutely, pretending that there was an unfortunate incident with my vocal cords many years ago at Velma’s Wee Wonders Vegetarian Bible Camp. (Maybe I was proudly listing the apostles while standing on a prune crate when, suddenly, a blade flew off a nearby combine and sliced my tender strings, but saved my life, because The Lord had plans for me to eventually be in a strange city where I could eat hot meat that was drenched in Cheez Whiz. Yeah, that sounds plausible.)

  Terry nodded as well at Bubbles. Girl, this is all you.

  Bubbles sighed, then began quizzing us about what we wanted on our cheesesteak sandwiches. Of course, all three of us wanted something different, which might lead to Bubbles supreme humiliation in a public setting, but that was fine as long as it wasn’t me. We joined the line to face our doom. (Well, Bubbles’ doom. If anything untoward happened, I fully intended to run through the night until I found a cab and eventually the airport.)

  The line moved surprisingly fast despite, or because of, the intricate procedural rules. It seemed like only seconds later and Bubbles was at the first steamy window. Bubbles announced our order. Showing complete disappointment in our failure, the ordering guy barked at her to clarify some business with the onions. When Bubbles hesitated for a fraction of a second, he barked again. (This was war, people.) Rattled, Bubbles provided the further intel, but she tripped up a bit on her own sandwich. I did not say a word. My sandwich was fine.

  Two seconds later, three piping-hot sandwiches were shoved at us. Seriously, two seconds. Bubbles paid. We moved to the second window, where you can get fries, and we partook of that. We avoided the final window, where you apparently could receive beverages, assuming you gave the right coded commands. We had bottled water in the car. Besides, if we spent any more time in the nerve-wracking line, we were going to crack, and I was really too tired for all the physical effort required to ensure a satisfactory and entertaining mental breakdown.

  We moved to the condiment station, jostling among the piglets for squirts and sprays of various dressings and flavor enhancers. I just wanted a bit of ketchup for my fries and then I was done. Whilst Terry and Bubbles perused the options, I suddenly realized that the warm meat in my hands smelled really good. Damn good. Perhaps I would have just a bite or two before tucking it away for the intended late-night snack. That’s all. Just a taste.

  I thought we would then head to the car, but a table happened to clear and Bubbles led us to it. As we settled in, she did have some cautionary advice. “These’ll make you burp.” I really didn’t pay much attention to her, because I didn’t plan to eat very much. You can’t get gas from a bite or two, right? I adjusted my sandwich wrapper and took a tentative nibble.

  Jesus appeared before me, blessing me with his work-calloused hands, while several stunning angels wearing the latest heavenly fashions frolicked behind him in a beautiful meadow where everything was clean and pretty and war didn’t happen.

  The vision cleared. I looked at Terry. “Holy cow.”

  He could only nod, grease dripping off his chin as he lunged for a second bite. He waved his hand. We could talk about it some other time, he was very busy right now. (Bubbles giggled with delight and satisfaction as we slightly lost our minds.)

  I took another bite, and produced my first belch. Wow, this stuff acted fast. What the hell were they putting in these things that made them so divine and yet so gaseous?

  It didn’t matter. I had to have more. All thoughts of saving anything for later flew out the window, and I let loose with another belch as I basically slammed my head face down into my sandwich.


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The Bubble Bath, Part 13

Editor’s Note: When last we met, I was standing outside a beer store in Philadelphia. Bubbles and Terry were inside the store, probably making friends with everybody, because they have that kind of skill. I had stayed in the parking lot, because I don’t want to make friends, and I don’t want that skill. Sadly, two members of one of those dreaded “parking lot gangs” were marching toward me in the murky dimness…

  I glanced around me, looking for random items lying about that could be used to, you know, kill these people if I didn’t like them. In my quick search, I only spied part of a discarded cheesesteak sandwich (such things are everywhere in this town) and what might have been a used condom. I really couldn’t fathom how either of these could be used in a violent manner, so I braced myself to perform the kung-fu moves I always imagined myself doing but had never actually learned.

  The duo came into full view, stopping a few feet away from me. Turns out it was a man and a woman, with that odd genetic resemblance indicating that their brother and daddy might be one and the same. This did not relax me.

  “Yo,” said the man. “Sup?”

  Okay, I can do street. I’ve watched “Oz” a time or two. “Just hangin’. My bitch and his bitch is in the sto, gettin’ some gin and juice.” (Which they actually were, so I wasn’t really lying. Just being stupid.)

  The woman spoke up. “How yo bitch gotta bitch?”

  The man decided he didn’t need help from Jack McFarlin, and gently shoved his companion into the side of a trash can. He looked back at me. “You gotta light?”

  Oh, that’s easy. “Sure.” I whipped out my slightly-salty lighter that had survived my romp through the ocean at Atlantic City. I held it poised before me.

  “You gotta cig, too?”

  I pondered this. Of course I had plenty. Bought with money I had earned from a job I went to every day. I had not taken the slacker route by sitting in a beer store parking lot and waiting for ignorant people to smoke in front of me and prove that they had nicotine supplies. Then again, I also was jobless and nearly homeless back in my day. It was not my place to judge. “Sure, man.” I held out my pack, fully expecting them to take the whole thing.

  Instead, he just took two, handing one to his sister/mother as she still leaned against the trashcan, not happy and fiddling with her trampy top. I lit them both. “Just two?”

  He exhaled. “Sure, man. Just waitin’ on a ride. Thanks.”

  They wandered back into the darkness.

  Times like this, you wonder. How do people get where they get? And how close am I to getting somewhere I don’t want to be?

  I finished my own cigarette, then plunked it in a half-empty beer bottle standing underneath a sign reading “Consumption of alcohol not allowed on premises.” Great. People in Philadelphia can read just about as well as people in Dallas. I hopped back in the Bubble Craft, and started scrounging around for my netbook.

  Just then, the door of the beer store slammed open, and Bubbles and Terry came trouncing out with their goodies. There was a brief flurry of activity as purchases were stored and secured, then Bubbles maneuvered her jetliner out onto the main road again.

  Once we were airborne, Bubbles finalized the rest of the evening’s agenda. “Should we get something to eat?”

  Oh. Well, I just wanted to drink until I was happy again (sue me) and food might cause a problem with that. Terry didn’t seem all that excited, either.

  But Bubbles was not to be dissuaded from whatever her agenda might be. She began throwing out dining options that were available in Philadelphia after ten o’clock on a Saturday night. As with any major metropolitan area, the variety of choices was rather expansive. And confusing. It’s so much easier when the only thing open is Taco Bell. I miss Oklahoma.

  Then Bubbles said something that immediately damned us into a locked progression of events. “How about we get some cheesesteaks and take them home?”

  Well, I’d already seen the tossed-aside remnants of such a sandwich at the beer store, so her words made some subconscious inner connection in my fried brain cells. After all, we were in Philly. Shouldn’t we partake of the namesake sandwich? I sealed our fate by stupidly saying: “That sounds great. Let’s go!”

  Terry made a small noise that roughly translated as “you are NOT touching me in an intimate manner until we leave this city.”

  Bubbles immediately whipped out her transponder and punched in the coordinates for our new destination. The rocket ship responded instantly, as we hurtled through the various urban roadways and exit ramps until we were in an older part of town. (Which I guess isn’t really saying much, since it’s Philly. Everything’s old. Everything.) Before I could properly focus, we were racing down streets originally intended for horse carts, not exhaust-belching, AC-deficient terror machines driven by a short, Hispanic woman fueled by the unquenchable desire to annihilate everything in her path. Bubbles did things with that car that would have made Mario Andretti make the sign of the cross, and then apologize to his sainted mother for everything he had ever done in his life.

  Swallowing nervously and trying to remain calm, I tentatively asked our Automotive Dominatrix where we might be headed.

  “To Pat’s, of course,” she responded, said with an air of total disbelief that I wasn’t intimately familiar with this destination.

  I wasn’t. “Pat’s?”

  Bubbles sighed, flipping on the windshield wipers so that they would displace the homeless person she had just hit and was now resting uncomfortably on the windshield. “Pat’s!” she barked.

  This did not make things clearer.

  I glanced at Terry. Are we going to die?

  He glanced back. I don’t think so. But maybe. Are we caught up on our insurance?

  Well, we were, but this knowledge did not prevent me from making a whimpering noise. I glanced at my netbook, nestled on the seat beside me. I hoped it had enough draft blog posts on it to fully explain the mysterious circumstances surrounding my sudden death during a quest for cheesesteaks. I wasn’t sure that it did.

  Bubbles suddenly slammed on the brakes, mashing my once-youthful face into the back of her seat. As I spat out something crusty that had adhered to her headrest, I slumped against the car door, my head hanging out the window that had been rolled down for days now. My weakened and battered eyes observed a surprisingly small establishment just across the intersection from us. Something had to be going on, because there were roughly 4,000 people milling about said venue.

  “We’re here!” said Bubbles, then punched it through the intersection and began honking at a couple who were just then heading to their car parked alongside the building. Apparently, in Philadelphia, thought transference was a necessary skill when it came to dining out. Bubbles did not understand why the couple was not racing to their car and relinquishing the parking space. Bubbles honked again.

  I quietly touched Terry on the shoulder. We had a good life, didn’t we?

  He nodded absently, waiting for a shotgun to be whipped out.

  The innocent couple finally figured out how to operate their car and drove off into the night. Bubbles instantly maneuvered the rocket ship into the vacated space. She slapped at some shut-down buttons on the ship’s control panel and then grabbed her purse. “Let’s go, bitches!”


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