August 15, 1995 (#3) (and before ...)

I'm back and so relieved that it's all I can do mix my manhattan ( so nostalgic) and log on. I arrived back in my sweet little pied a desert with my lovely and brave Lancelot waiting expectantly by the back door.

What can I say about my journey that hasn't already been said, mostly everything. Traveling incognito in a mode of transportation not far removed from the old calistoga wagons, I pushed my way into the heart of the Great Plains to the homeland. Not exactly the land of my birth, but where I was tortured, ahem, raised. Here I fete-d mio papa's birthday with the help of my lovely sisters, three in all. I then whisked off to Los Angeles to participate in some tribal ritual known to commoners as a wedding ceremony.

We must digress and discuss this unusual custom. I myself, the participant observer (yes darlings, Trudy did study anthropology), took innumerable mental notes in order to try and fully understand what would drive any human being, even if they were straight, to put themselves through that mess.

I have no answers. But the wedding was pretty and was near the ocean, so good for the skin, and your Trudy was a veritable spectacle in champagne.

Upon my return, letters, letters, letters. But even more important, I have noticed so many visitors leaving their calling cards on the trailer door. Thank you ever so. I wish that I had been there to receive you.

My correspondents regulieres have also been active in my absence. Mr. Jewel, Broadway gentleman has donned his accent and whisked himself off to "Arcadia" where he spent the evening in a state, possibly Montana. I really don't know why he is so cranky, he usually goes to the theatre for free, one would think he would be a bit more grateful for this diversion, especially since he is in dire need of diversion. Oh, but Lance and I simply adore our Mr. Jewel.

My nephew, Zachary, Zacharia, whatever my sister with the Lost in Space mentality named him. ANYWAY, Zach, as he calls himself, wrote to me of laptops, not his, but his computer, and he too is in a state, not Montana.

That darling young woman Sage, lost in the desert of her mind, poems me about her own dear Ukiah. What is Ukiah? This question is not answered in her poems, but they are awfully pretty.

My little prosciutto, Joe Palermo, writes to me of his haircut. Oh to be young and hirsute. Be brave little Joey as they hack away at your manhood. Darlings, please!

It is so wonderful to be back among the joshua trees with all, or most, of my friends. A dark cloud passes over my little peaceful portable village. Jack and Mary have become impossible. Their constant insensitive drinkings will be the ruin of me. And, I don't mind telling you, my little london broils, in the strictest confidence, that I am sure that drinking is only the beginning. Now, I would never be one to point fingers, yet I am sure this wanton abandon is due to the influence of our newest neighbor. This thing that practically dropped out of the sky and it calls itself "Amy". How simple.

Dear, lovely Amy. I knew an Amy once, and I hated her too. Oh, but hate is such a strong emotion, maybe I just loathe her. I will admit, however, that Ms. Amy mixes a wild and cloyingly uneven gin gimlet, I might almost find it in my heart to ravage her for this alone. Unfortunately for the Messrs. Tanqueray and Bombay, I have my principles.

This Amy has brainwashed my two bestest friends and occupies their time completely. I have learned a dire lesson about leaving home; the dog sitter wasn't enough. AND, Amy is all agog about aviation. Please, planes, planes, planes, she keeps model planes everywhere. I just don't think you can trust someone who seemingly dedicates their life to flitting from here to there, so transitory and decorating so limited. It makes my skin crawl to think of it.

Well the charming little rodent is trying hard to impress yours truly and join my little group, the same one she has decimated with her heartless ways. I can hear them next door in Jack and Mary's double wide with the ice cubes clinking already.

Ah. There they go, inviting me over, as if I could just drop everything for a party. Well, we must keep up our appearances, even though death is all around us. So, my sweet porterhouses, I will drop everything for the good of the collective consciousness and to show the world that although Amy is quite possibly my antichrist, I am not willing to tattoo 666 anywhere yet. In fact, in the words of my schizoid ex-agent "Momma needs a cocktail".

Until I have arranged a small unusual accident for Mlle. Amy,
I remain forever in your isles of Langerhans
Trudy.