July 22, 1996 (#13) (and before ...)

Hello my tiny tater tots,

Imagine being shredded potato and then lovingly bound with egg, water, add some salt and pepper and just a hint of cheese then a rollicking bath in searingly hot oil. After all this excitement you arrive in a 5 compartment lunch tray in some tawdry elementary school where the teachers are underpaid and the school lunch program is stuffing fat and cholestrol down the youth of tomorrow's throats.

And those silly Texans worry about the books in the school library.

Yes, I know what the date is, many have reminded me daily for the last 3 weeks. No more apologies, I can't bear the shame any longer. In fact, truth be told, and I often do despite myself, I have just been bursting out of my vamps with busy-ness.

First of all, notes to those I hold dear, and who have taken the time to pour their hearts out.

Joseph, sweet pained love is just not good for you I fear. Here you go off delusioning when that lovely Mr. Martin is in your sight lines. I worry about you so sometimes. I know you think that life is to get easier as you get older, but as you discovered, there is so much more to risk when you have more to give. Don't dwell on that my love, that's just the way it is. Oh well. As for the Ginges, well I was whipping through your letter and the whole time I kept hearing it pronounced with a hard G, like Ganges. Imagine my surprise when I realized, three quarters of the way through, that it is, of course, like Ginger. Well, at least despite your allowing Ms. Estefan a little too much emotional control, you seem to nonetheless be healing quite nicely. Take two aspirin and check with the nurse. Cough.

Miss Verlene haunting far and wide since I last mentioned that one. I would love to see her luggage. If I am correct she went to England, then Southern France, then Washington DC Pride, then she took a rest vacation at home where she only has time for vicious inside gossip so scathing that my terror grows for Chipperlean every day. Am I psychic? Verlene, tell me I'm wrong and she's okay.

Then our gadaboutress manages to stay put more or less for the next two weeks, getting a bit philosophical as she puts down roots and then reving up before another whirlwind, supposedly to Dallas. Well, big surprise, she lit off to London again for Pride and some Chicken Flamers. Then she managed to make it to Dallas. The whole trip ends up costing her dearly as her emotions fray and she juxtaoposes herself and "Travel Barbie". Verlene, I hope those cramps relax in your feet, remember, Barbie's are molded. Finally, she reports in from the extravagant Crape Myrtle Festival where she was given almost the honor she deserves. Honey, do I need to write the judges a letter? Are they blind? Perhaps you were too young.

James, receiving another visit from his late intended, has fallen upon hard times. So much energy spent in worrying about nouns and adjectives and community. Perhaps my love, it doesn't matter at all. Then again, if our community was one big corporation, I am sure we would have a slew of post graduate degree's making sure that our image was just so, in which case, it matters the most in the world. I prefer to express a bit of confusion and fatigue. Couldn't you simply go round that mulberry tree until the branches fell on you, at which point the whole discussion would have to be moved to the emergency room. I don't mean to trivialize, and I suppose it's only because you did so much of the thinking/analysis for me -- but ...

Jewel, my semi-precious stone, has been traumatized again by the state of Broadway and it's offshoots. First in what must have been another in his series of mid-life crisises, he forced himself upon Schoolhouse Rock Live! and you can probably imagine the outcome. Jewel, Jewel, why torture yourself. As if that wasn't enough, and possibly to cleanse the palate, he tottered off to Broadway's and heeding the call of the commercial siren, Miss Saigon ensared our Jewel as he relived his military days. I fear he subjected himself to the horror once again for love. His child is a sweet thing, but You-Know-Who was literate. I suppose I am guilty. Jewel, next time stick to lemon sorbet.

Now that I have fulfilled my social duties, I can regale you all with tales from my blisteringly busy June and July. First of all, and I know that I can complain so, but the heat, can't God do something about this? (I even used a big G, unusual to me as I worry about giving any deity a swell head). Air conditioning was obviously invented by Satan to lure us inside and keep us from exploring nature during the most wonderful time of the year. I don't know how long I can continue being a pawn in this supernatural tiff.

Onward.

Memorial Day. Well I can't quite remember. I'm sure I was trying to contact my lawyers about something or another which eventually led to why I moved. It's such a long story, you'll need libation -- I'll wait.

So, it would seem that the barristers were attempting to locate me most of May and finally made contact around Memorial Day. Something about papers to sign and judgments in my favor etc., etc., etc. Gracious, don't bother me with this so long as I don't owe anybody money or have to take a room at the Notel Penitentiary. Well, I finally got Mr. Firm Partner on the phone (whose firmness is questionable as I am advised the executive spread is palatial) -- (my bill just went up, I feel it) and we are chit chatting about this and about that. He urging me to settle down (simmer down?) and I have to say my wanderlust has been a bit taxed lately.

After about a few hours, the exact amount shall appear on a forthcoming receipt I am sure, he revealed to me that I happened to be the proud owner of an old, but immenintely seaworth oil rig -- nonproducing (Much like the svelte and oh so club-conscious dears at Barbara's).

Well, times being what they are, and my dermatolgist a stickler for fresh air, it was decided that myself, Abattoir and Lancelot would "demenageons" ourselves to this floating EPA nightmare. Actually it's quite grand. We expect to be here for a few weeks more, bobbing about in international waters. Lancelot has more room to explore and do those canine things he does best. As he questions humanity's existence so, I think he has adapted very well.

Abattoir has no choice and is such a dear about it. A bit green, we have been experimenting with those pressure bracelets for motion sickness.

The crew is divine, hello Charlie, hello Nando and the rest. I'm sure I be awash with sea shanty's the next time we meet.

I gave my girls quite a start with the news and the poor dears had a bit of boning up to do on line-of-sight microwave technology. But as I am a stern taskmaster, they soon had me connected and ready for just about anything.

Well, before the actual moving van showed up at the trailer (figuratively, dears, the trailer is in storage, the Toronado actually sold) the three of us made the annual pilgrimage to Provincetown. My ever-loyal girls had acquired a small cottage for my use, which they managed to make look quite lived in the weekend before my arrival. I forgot to thank you so, my sweet children. I spent at least one full week in complete relaxation sunning, strolling and just surrounded by the general merriment of that place.

I was called back to Manhattan somewhat suddenly for private, until further notice, reasons and soon after was able to take posession of "La Concombre de la mer", as it has been so named. The christening was a bit more difficult and I do hate to part with champagne and the crew insisted that a plastic soda water bottle was inappropriate. Please don't ask for a translation, as Abattoir still can't stop giggling and it is very unbecoming on him.

Gads, I completely forget, possibly because I myself missed it in all the hoopla -- but I meant to swing through Manhattan for Gay Pride before Provincetown, but with all the arrangements I was absent. However, my girls once again saved the day as they planted themselves right on the parade route and snapped away. Some of the pictures are even focused.

There my loves, a summer, or thereabouts, on the high seas. What could be more fun. Perhaps one of you knows Parcheesi?

Until docking,
Trudy