I don't know if I've fully explained my feelings for Palm Springs to you all yet... or if you've been able to pick up on the clues between the lines about how the desert's become this chainstore version of the Liberace Museum, with strip mall after strip mall of high-end old ladies' boutiques, and designer furniture outlets, mixed with exotic luxury car lots and an endless supply of Del Tacos... Palm Springs, where the men are handsome, charming and rich--and so are their boyfriends.
And I'm not sure if I've been able to make absolutely clear that it is simply NOT a good idea for a grown woman who has lived on her own for more than a third of her life to step back into the wildly routinized craziness of her parent's house, sacrificing her once-adult independence for a welcome-back glimpse into teenhood to yet again face the parental inquisition of yore--"Where are you going? Who are you going with? What time will you be home? Are you going out dressed like that??"
I know I have briefly alluded to the challenges of adapting my alt-weekly reporter snark to the tempered-down, small-town community speak of a mega-corporate daily, although to this point, I will withhold further discussion on the matter, lest I piss off the destiny gods--I am grateful for the lessons, I am honored to have this experience, I am thankful for the money blah blah blah... But back to the Palm Springs bitching:
I do believe I also might've mentioned the disturbing run-ins with exes who are now old (and, therefore, making me realize my racing mortality) and the disturbing absence of playmates of either gender who are not otherwise attached--either to a loved one or a colostemy bag, as well as (please don't make me say this again please don't make me say this again) disturbing presence of middle-age parents who are still doing it, and loudly, in the room next to where I am NOT sleeping, because I am so disturbed, and the resultant LACK of sex all of this has amounted to for me, hence the aforementioned exciting discovery of the "hydriatic therapy" associated with the jacuzzi jets at last month's weekend trip to Sasha's dad's house in Oakland.
As a result, I have been on countdown mode since New Year's. Deciding that January 18th would be the perfect last day, I set about to planning the much-anticipated event. I discovered that my favorite cabaret would be returning for a performance that same night, and that my Oahu goddess Krista was considering a visit that weekend, as well. I began fantasizing about how my last weekend here would roll: a lavish, overnight stay at The Viceroy whereby the GM would personally attend to my, er, our every need, followed by a last mimosa-fueled romp through downtown's homage to glamorous mid-century gay-ville, then an appropriately screeching hellbent departure and Pacific Coast Highway road trip back up to San Francisco with my gal pal and sultry sidekick.
And then the obvious happened: once I neared my two-week mark, things started looking rosier. The weather was beautiful--warm and sunny in the daytime, crisp and clear at night, with a million stars in the desert sky. Snow began to freckle the surrounding San Jacintos like frosting on a bundt cake. The film festival came to town, providing a very needed respite and cultural diversion, not only when it came to spicing up my down-time, but also in the way of work--I got to talk to the most fascinating filmmakers, documentarians and festival programmers, and wrote articles on "Autism: The Musical" and "Passion & Power: The Technology of Orgasm."
It was all very lovely. And by the time I had one week left, that nagging old friend Doubt began to creep in... maybe I've been shortchanging the desert... maybe it's not so bad after all... maybe...
