For the third consecutive day San Francisco is as hot as George Clooney in the hallucination scene from Alfonso Cuarón’s Gravity, so B, Sid, the dogs and I are planning to ditch our upstairs bedrooms tonight in favor of a campout in the main floor living room where it’s a much more tolerable O Brother, Where Art Thou? on the George Clooney Movie Hotness Scale.
I stood next to my second favorite porn star on the train this morning.
B walked into the bathroom while I was brushing my teeth this morning, slapped a five dollar bill onto the counter and said, "The lottery's over four hundred million. Will you pick up tickets at the bodega by your office?"
"Fine," I said a moment later, hocking toothpaste foam into the sink, "but what would we even do with four hundred million dollars?"
"Well, I'd want a huge oil painting done of you, Sid and I," he said. "You know, one that would still look beautiful five hundred years from now. And we'd buy a really nice place in Provincetown, and New York City probably, and Paris too, maybe. And of course I would get a massage every day."
"Well of course," I said.
"Oh, and because I'd be able to finance it all myself, I would finally write and direct my porn movie."
"Beg your pardon?"
"It's always been a dream of mine."
"And somehow I think I'll be okay if we don't win."
After work tonight Caitlin, Sam and I made our way to Blazer's place on Hayes Street to sip red wine and talk about sex for three straight hours.
Last night's flight from IAD to SFO was delayed in the terminal for thirty minutes, then on the tarmac for sixty more and then in the sky for another forty-five because of the weather in San Francisco (we circled over Utah twice) but it was still one of the better airplane experiences I've ever had.
First, there was nobody in the seat next to me but in the seat next to that one was a handsome older gay man named Paul with whom I gabbed about books, travel and life in San Francisco for the first hour of the trip.
Then I ordered a glass of red wine from the touchscreen in front of me and instead of delivering crappy stuff in a tiny plastic cup, one of two hot older male flight attendants brought me wine in a glass made of actual glass and said, "I thought you might like to try what they're drinking up in first."
A little while later the other hot older gentleman, who looked sort of like a slightly younger version of Sir Ian McKellen, came to my seat and asked, "Would you like a cookie? I have one left from first class. It's still warm."
Shortly after that I got up to pee and both daddies were standing in the back of the plane chatting. I thanked them for the wine and the cookie and we started talking and didn't stop for an hour. They told me crazy stories about the things they'd done and seen in their long careers as flight attendants, most of which I can't share here except to say that you can get away with a whole lot of risqué shit on an airplane if you're so motivated.
We finally landed at SFO almost three hours after we were supposed to and the weather made the final descent one of the dicier ones I'd had to endure but I still walked off the plane with a huge smile on my face.
Thanks, Gay Mafia.