MEXICANS ARE THE NEW BLACK (PART II)

You ever have one of those days where you almost get taised by a drunken, +50 hotel prostitute? I do, and that day was Saturday.

I don't need to recap, but you can easily infer the state of my body that morning, but I was pleased to be checking items off my list of things to do that day. My plan was to drive 2 hours north, drink constantly from 11:30am to 4:30pm, possibly have intercourse (with a WOMAN this time) in a winery bathroom, forget to eat anything all day except for an entire block of cheese, meet some colorful people at a hotel bar, and pass out with my church clothes still clinging to my sweat-and-Manhattan-soaked body, and I love it when a plan comes together (we call that "foreshadowing" in the literary business.... gosh, I'm so bloody smart!).

For some reason, all my bloody mary fixin's were laid out neatly in the kitchen when I awoke, and I revel in my ability to sling a monster bloody when put to the test. Five minutes later and biggity-shazam, I've got a nalgene full of juju for the road; not that I advocate for drinking and driving, you understand. That would just be irresponsible. Riding in a car while tipsy, shrieking at cows and shoving fistfuls of Kettle Chips in my craw, is perfectly acceptable.

God, I haven't even arrived at breakfast yet! What fun!

Praise ye who stocked my fridge chock-o-block with groceries that superb Saturday. Know what has two thumbs and loves to cook himself some dee-lish breakfast? This guy [indicates self].

You know, I think we're going to speed things along and fast-forward a bit. Stick with me now.

...Sunny... meet some good 'ol friends up at the vineyards... drinking drinking... spending way too much cash for bottles... checking into a hotel... drinking bottles... eating an entire brick of cheese... hottub... drinking bottles... watching The Replacements... dressing up in my church clothes...

A-ha. Here we go. Got to skip all that juvenile and boring "wine tasting" chatter, thank God. Anyway, I arrive at the hotel bar dressed somewhere between Dylan McDermott and a circa 1963 Dick Clark. Jesus, I'm sexy. The clientele at the bar is split evenly between some young, well-dressed, sophisticated-but-certainly-approachable, patrons and three kinda cracked-out older people. Immediately I make the decision to engage the older folks, since I can only imagine how much potential lies in their company. I order a Manhattan from the bartender (who looks as if he mixed his first drink sometime during the Taft administration--one look at his withered arms and I decide against the tippy-top shelf liquor), and belly up to the rail.

The middle-aged man to my right is drinking the same drink as I am, and he looks the least like a serial killer. I introduce myself to him first. After a brief exchange of names and occupations (I tell the truth for once, BOR-ING), we get to the "what are you doing here" questions. I reveal that I am trying to clear my brain; that I am trying to discard the shackles of my job and monotone existence. I talk of my desire to chase what little is left of the American West and to see the great Pacific Ocean laid before me inturrupted by great Pleistocene fingers of stone. I am here to feel the nature of "human."

He is there for a cat show.

I didn't know they even had cat shows.

He continues. Cat shows are apparently better than dog shows, since dog shows involve a "pyramid" of judging whereby contestants filter through an ever-dwindling pool of competition until only a single champion remains ("Best in Show"). The judging at cat shows, in contrast, involves all cats simultaneously competing for various accolades which are then weighted to the size of the overall attendance (e.g. 4th place at a 1,000 cat show is better than 2nd place at a 200 cat show). These earned points ("rings") are tallied at the end of each competition year, at which time the CFA crowns the Top Cat in the Nation.

I can only interject with the occasional Christopher Guest joke, which gets exactly zero positive response from my new friend. After some prodding I get him to reveal how well his cat is doing. He leans in as if to keep our conversation private from sinister ears:
"Right now," he whispers, looking to see just who is watching, "right now, WE'VE got the top cat in the Nation."

I confirm this when I get back home. To my delight, he is not bullshitting.

Not a bad start, I decide. Meanwhile, the woman to my left has become steadily drunker. This has an obvious effect on the man to her left, which will matter later. But first, the woman. Picture one of the actresses from Golden Girls, now reverse time so that she is in her late 40's or early 50's. She's just like that, only... you know... a hotel prostitute. I'm not judgemental, but from the look of things, the change-wad of 1's in my pocket might buy me a full night with this woman with the possibility of a pancake breakfast. Not one to discriminate, however, I engage her in conversation as well. She is borderline insane and tells really un-funny jokes about how women are different than men. Observe:

To my companion: "Do you know why it takes a million sperm to fertilize one egg?" she asks.

We say nothing, only cling to each other like castaways and shuffle awkwardly in our seats.

"Do you know why it takes a million sperm to fertilize one egg?" she repeats, totally oblivious to our discomfort. A pregnant silence ensues.

Under my breath, I mutter, "beause they don't stop for directions... jesus fuck how old is that fucking joke?"

She hears me. She wonders how I could have known that. She insists I have heard this joke before. She becomes indignant; I have stolen her moment.

She also owns a taiser, which she proceeds to show me.

The man to her left, who has been solving the economic riddle of how much money he would have to spend on drinks so that he would be willing to spend money on the woman, quickly walks away. He has government experience. He has no tolerance for the intoxicated / armed.

He is, however, a pretty groovy guy, and is heavily involved with government-sponsored emergency management. We talk for a spell about climate change, and how it's much smarter for the US government to (at least in secret) believe in, and respond to climate change, since an ounce of prevention will go a hell of a long way to saving money/our asses in the future. All in all a reasonable fellow. I enjoyed meeting him, and as I shake his hand on the way out I get the feeling he enjoyed meeting me. I believe this because he is comfortable enough to admit that he is there to finish writing a collection of erotic stories.

I ask him what kind of erotica he writes. I learn it is mostly mystery, historical, and "noir" erotica. I do not know what any of that really means, but I do not admit this, nor do I press the subject any further. Some things are better left un-explored.

Throughout all of this insanity, I have been chugging Manhattans as if they were snakebite antidote. I am not intoxicated; I am what the Irish call "drunk."

PART III
(to be continued...)