As
I press on the gas pedal and weave the Silver
Spider through the Los Angeles streets, with the
carbon-monoxide-flavored wind blowing through
my not-nearly-so-much-like-a-mullet-as-it-used-to-be
hair, I feel an emergent sense of freedom, a new
way of feeling, of seeing, and of experiencing
the world.
Sure,
I'm here to see tits, to feel tits, and to silently
compare one set of tits against another, yet there
are more things to life than tits, even though
it is tits that butter my bread and it's undeniable
that a tit-man I'll always be.
But
I am here because LA has become my sanctuary,
my refuge, a glistening neon vagina that offers
a warm, rain-free coziness away from all the little
screaming brats who need me in Portland.
I'm
Portland's babysitter. That's been my job for
years.
I
am a kind man, a wise man, a generous man (and
a tit-man), yet the only discernible reward for
these virtues is the task of keeping some of P-Town's
most incurable fuckups out of trouble. I have
to keep Goad from beating women, I gotta tell
Viva to stop blowing guys in public, and I'm always
buying penicillin for everybody who works at Dante's.
The minute I go anywhere, it's always, "Frank!
Frank! Me! Me! Do something for me, Frank!
Help me, Frank!" And what happens when
I help them? They ask for twice as much help and
then wind up stealing supplies from me.
I'm
not even going to talk about Darklady and Gary
Aker. I mean, I swore I wouldn't. But the first
thing I'm going to do when I get back home is
give Goad a 200% raise.
So
don't hate me if I drive through LA, sippin' on
gin and juice, with my mind on tits and tits on
my mind. I earned this vacation.
It
is the city of Portland, not I, that suffers when
I'm gone.
PS:
Our friends the Monks--Rob and Jane--offer everyone
a hearty "aloha" from this sun-splashed land of
palm trees and coconuts.
