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Camp'd Up 08/18/00
Big Gay FunAs we left the tranquil gates of San Francisco in our Yugo inspired Suzuki rental PB&J sandwiches were prepared by yours truly. I have many talents coming from Ohio, sandwich making is only one. Snacking, meandering up HWY101 toward Russian River, we prepared for big fun, but not the big gay fun that awaited us. I was not aware that sodom by the bay is a franchise; apparently it is. Gayville, is a remote village of homos on the river just downstream from our non-homo campsite, nearly a mile before the scene of "the accident." It’s a strange little town with one or two stoplights and three or four gay bars, one of which is a dance club called, FAB. I guess it thinks it’s #fabulous# or something. Having an inherent aversion to the gays Candy and I spent most of our first two days at our campsite or wandering the local redwoods where the word fabulous can be used freely and with confidence. At night we snuggled next to a blazing campfire with smores in one hand and drinks in the other. Of course, Candy said it was romantic and all. Girls are suckers for campfires. Behind us some fraternity types were bonding over Wutang and Eminem before hootin and a hollering over their non-homo campfire way into the night. That wasn’t very romantic.
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"The Accident"We woke early into day 2 of our fun, early and ignorant to "the accident" which loomed around the bend of old man river. After some overpriced eggs at Big Bertha's, the lesbian coffee shop, we reached for a paddle and a canoe; it was barely 9AM. First ones on the river, we said, with misguided confidence. And just like a couple of city brats, we laughed off the cautionary tales of rough waters ahead. Not even 10 minutes into what became a 3-hour canoe trip, we hit the said waters. Scraggly trees that hang round riverbanks like the gays do Club FAB reached out guiding Mr. canoe straight into trouble. After ramming into the said trees our humble boat capsized into the filthy mucked up depths of the Russian River. We went under, down the deep end of the pool, the keys to our rental did the same. And by the time I found a paddle and my shoes, our lunch of cheesy poofs and bananas had floated far far away. This, my friends, was a Survivor moment and I was playing to win. |
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Poor Candy landed under a prickly branch where a barrel full of river foam had gathered in an otherworldly gross pile of goo. I wont lie, Candy looked a dirty mess. As we struggled to resist the pull of the river and half successfully salvage our goods I yelled, "wipe your face sweetie, that's really gross" because it was you know. I swam to a makeshift beach where small children and myself watched with amusement as Candy dove under the dirty waters in search of the lost keys. It was a futile attempt, but funny to watch from afar. Later, Candy told me that she hit her head on an underwater tree. I didn't think that was so funny, just kinda sad. After the 3-hour cruise a locksmith was called, problems were solved, and I had to wash my hair for the first time in weeks. My hair is often mistaken for a wig and I take great pride in this confusion. Washing my hair turns my wig into a feathered bouffant a la Morrissey circa the last Smith's record. In some circles this is FAB, but some people are also retarded and slow, much like the folk we were soon to meet in raucous-less Reno. |
Cosmopolitan SebastopalThat night, having exhausted the river of fun, we decided to treat ourselves to a proper dinner in cosmopolitan Sebastopal. We went to the only place that didn't look gross. It was Italian and fancy. Candy had changed into a matching shirt and pants set but being HC and indie-vidual I returned to the Hawaii Shorts with the rip in the crotch which I had worn during "the accident." They were still damp but Im used to wet and Mr. Sticky. no worries, I thought. The gay waiter greeted us with a scary gay waiter smile, very disciplined that smile was. I think he's what other homos would call a body fascist. At any rate I was intimidated right off. I asked if we were too underdressed and he assured me that we could be seated upstairs where no one else would be dining. I thought he mistook me for a fellow homo at first, that he was luring us into some backroom bathhouse, but he just thought we looked poor. It was my damp mismatched Hawaii outfit, that tipped him off, Im guessing here. But more importantly Candy and I had the whole second floor to ourselves. Romance yos, that's what Im sayin. After a heavy dinner we went to Fred's Liquors in fantastic Forestville to ensure an evening which we would surely forget. Success! We sat around the campfire lifting drinks with both hands. I don't remember how we got to the tent or how we fell asleep on the hard earth but Candy sure looks cute sloppy. |
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Stewarts Point to NapaThe next morning lesbian Bertha offered us some bottomless coffee stylings before we headed up the most span-tacular HWY in the world, the One. This is what I like to call the transitional phase of our week of wonderment. The phase where we let the gays set sail behind us down the gay river, the place where the Pacific and mountains meet and do a little dance before dropping into Napa. It's the place of pretty between River and Reno where lots of cattle bliss out on hillsides. |
One of my favorite places in the world is a lil spot called Stewart's Point, found a couple of hours north of Jenner on HWY One. Stewart's Point is less of a town and more of an intersection with one antiquated general store full of the most random merchandise. Purchased items include a kite, a fish wind chime, a Stewart's Point T-shirt, cheesy puffs and one talking pickle. It's cold, desolate, beautiful, easy and just minutes from one of my top ten picnic spots. Into the mountains along the winding one lane road out of Stewart's Point we leave the coast behind for more PB&J and cheesy puffs. It's a picnic! A smitten pair, we sit on the hillside overlooking a lot of trees and dead grass that looks an unnatural shade of gold. With little success I attempt to fly the three dollar kite Candy bought me at Stewart's Point. |
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We leave for other nature stuffs in the coastal mountains. For over 30 miles we wind about this one lane road stopping sporadically to take pictures and short walks through abandoned trailers and shacks. Someone had written GLOW on a beam inside one of these shacks. I took that as a good sign. By now it's mid-afternoon, sunny, 90 degrees, glowing. Too much time in sodom by the bay has made us retarded to such heat. Luckily, as we wind out of the mountains toward Falcon Crest, Sonoma Lake approaches with glistening blues. With the quickness we pay our five dollars and jump in the lake. |
RENO - Where Things Go To Die
Candy is not a conventional girl. Case in point, Candy dips fries into her milkshake before they enter her mouth, at least its not mayonnaise, I hate mayonnaise. I notice this while zoning out at the Truckee River Burger King. Interesting gal, Candy. Sitting in that booth, it occurs to me that we should take a second day in Reno since we're zombies arriving way past the originally scheduled time. Precise, I am. Little did I know that Reno is #the# land of Zombies, the place where all dead Midwestern types go to work and/or vacation. Coming from Ohio, I hoped I wasn't dead yet, and If I was, why Reno? Well, Reno is a little slice of hell unto itself. Nestled just east of Lake Tahoe in a dry wasteland that gives entrance to the Mars-like Nevada desert, Reno is weird and tragically lacking; I fell in love, in a summer romance type of way. Fast, fleeting, forgettable, that's what I wanted from Reno. Upon entering the notoriously fancy Sands Hotel/Casino/Arby's/Greyhound Terminal the heroine music of a hundred slots washes over me. It's reminiscent of that time I saw Spiritualized in Cleveland. If this is hell, it aint so bad. |
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Early to rise, we went straight to the 'pool complex.' Where candy stripped to her Speedo in the hot morning sun. I warned her that an occasional homo likes the occasional Speedo, but after some margaritas and poolside top 40 I was convinced she was simply glam. Having a general aversion to the sun, because HCs don't tan, I wasn't prithe to the sunblock stylings that Candy was fully aware of. I felt Id outstare the sun or something and I lost fairly miserably ending up with a fire engine burn the shape of Idaho from my privates to my pits. No worries, it gave us an excuse for a late afternoon rubdown in room 694. When our maid rudely interrupted the rubdown we decided to get food and explore Reno by car. Somehow, we ended up thrifting before eating at a family diner straight outta some Paul Thomas Anderson movie. |
Reno was losing steam after only half a day. We left for the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas where desert meets pines. This mini excursion had Blair Witch potential with that abandoned house in the woods we stumbled upon and every freakin path looking remarkably similar. When we discovered a mountain stream Candy went straight for a drink. Being younger and wiser than Candy I abstained and merely dipped my sexy feet in the cold waters. One of my co-workers just told me that you could get cramps from drinking the animal poop water rolling off the mountains. Gross. |
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By nightfall we were ready to use our 8 free drink coupons in deluxe style. Candy tried to teach me poker but I was more interested in only pretending to play so the free drinks would keep coming. On drink 5 or so we left on foot to the glitter filled streets of Reno, crossing the Union Pacific tracks only to end up on the wrong side of things, the homo junkie side. In an effort to side step the smack down blistering around us we slipped into a lil unassuming place called Quest. I should tell Sean The Friend about this homo haven. The gay bartender, just this side of 21, was probably the only under 50 thang for some 50 miles, so he swaggered behind the bar like some twinky dong with shit in his drawers. Really sad, Café style, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. Redeeming was the local dive flavah, the jukebox cum DJ and cafeteria tiled dancefloor where many did their best Milli Vanilli impersonation. When I heard 'miss you much' play on that bass-less box I felt 16 again, thrilled and naughty. I wanted a cigarette for the first time in my fantastic life. I smoked against the wall HC with style as Candy played some Prince on the box. Into the streets once again. With newly found mixers and mmm beef jerky we pour into our room for what the soaps often call a nightcap. We catch some of Blind Date San Francisco on the TV before passing out in a most glam Reno way. |
HomestyleAfter sleeping in, mostly, until noon, we say farewell to the tragedy that is Reno. We make such good time driving home that we decide to spend even more time together! Our friends must hate us. We rent Harold and Maude, nibble some sushi, drink some drink and recount our misadventures over the past five days -"the accident," the camping, rivers and mountains and Reno... It's what they call closure in the movies. and this is the end. |
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