Urbane Cowboy

I'm at an internet cafe. There's a gay man with a purple arm cast speaking a variety of languages into his cell phone, watching me. To see if I notice? To see if I'm listening? Now he's giggling with his super-model friend. Cute cute cute. When you're out, you're out.

We went with a friend to sample a possible wedding venue last night: the White Fence Farm. Closed Mondays. So we traipsed Westward, looking for "the Old Country," an Italian place on Union Boulevard. Closed forever.

And then . . . Red Lobster. It was there, it was open, we entered, we ate, we conquered.

Special evenings are those that seem at first to flirt with frustration and boredom but morph into something memorable and fun. My friend had just quit her job and was in the very rare position of being able to tell her icky boob-watching boss to f*** off when he asked her for two weeks notice. I love it! I almost shot lobster linguine sauce out my nose. Funny how being in the right makes us brave and strong.

My cast-wearing neighbor in the cafe is now singing along (out loud) to "Watching the Detectives." He's here, he's queer, he wants us all to know it.