And now an impotent message from your mistress:

On my way back from LA, I made a little pit stop in the Lone Star state.

It occurred to me whilst driving through downtown Houston, it’s amazing that Bob Dole had to take his search for an effective solution to erectile dysfunction nationwide.

(You’ll all remember Senator Dole as having hawked Viagra across the 50 United States in the late 1990s.)

Yes it’s inconceivable that the Kansas Senator couldn’t find an Erection Specialist in his neighboring state of Texas.

After all, I did.

Who had a gay old time in San Francisco this weekend?

I did! I did!

My second time to the city filled with boys who like boys, San Fran did not disappoint. From the charm of Chinatown, to the beauty of the Bay, to screaming down steep hills on the Powell Street trolley, San Francisco is, quite simply, the bees knees.

One thing San Francisco is famous for is Lombard Street. As we wound our way down the cobblestones, past cheery Victorian homes, I heard Angelface say that Lombard is the most crooked street of the world. I think he might be wrong about that –after all, George Bush doesn’t even live in California… but I digress.

Another popular place in San Francisco is the Fisherman’s Wharf. The historic waterfront is home to great seafood, gorgeous views, cheap shopping, and of course, The World Famous Bushman. A street performer, people call the dude The World Famous Bushman because he makes bank scaring the bejesus out of folks, by leaping out from behind bushes. People also probably call him The World Famous Bushman because that’s what he has written in permanent marker on the front of his tip jar.

And that makes me think… I’ve got a sharpie and some Tupperware. Maybe I should set up shop on a street corner too. I could call myself The Incredible BitchAss. Maybe people would toss some shit in my tip jar, and maybe they’d toss some dollar bills in there too.

But anyway, obvious targets in our tourist uniform of discount jackets with SF emblazoned across the chest, the ‘Bushman scared us pretty bad. My sister-in-law who is an ER nurse said “That’d be real funny if he scared someone and they ended up having a heart attack.” I said I agreed, but actually I think that wouldn’t be funny at all. Everyone knows that heart attacks just don’t get the laughs like scaring someone into having herpes does.

One thing about vacationing in California is, you never know when you’re going to see a celebrity. I was pretty sure I saw Mariah Carey down at Pier 39. But actually it was just a fat-ass sea lion – one of about 50 sunning themselves on the docks – which had his flipper raised high, like he was reaching for heaven…or ho hos.

Down at the pier there a ton of cute little shops where you can buy all kinds of crap. Since Angel’s maaa wanted to get a cable car ornament, we stopped somewhere. When we got to the register, Angel kept asking if the ornament qualified as a “model.” I couldn’t figure out why he was repeatedly asking this dumb question, but then I read the sign where his eyes were transfixed: “Buy a model, pull the cord.”

The cord, mounted above the register, was attached to a trolley bell. Even though the ornament didn’t technically qualify, the clerk let Angel pull cord. This is probably because Angel is 25, and most times when someone nearly pees themselves over the pulley, they are 10.

In concluding this travelogue, I would just like to leave you with this thought: Alcatraz: it’s known as “The Rock,” but yet, when I had a look around, I found no evidence of screaming guitars, too-tight hot pants, or boys who wear makeup.

Perhaps we should call it “The Soft Rock” or “The Smooth Jazz” instead.

Discuss.

Til next, dear hannihaus readers, adieu.
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Update B/c you asked for it, here they are: click for my San Fran pics.  If you’re bored, Angel’s got some too.

As I snuggled into my punky-colored seat on the Friday night flight, I thought how appropriate that the first song on the new CD I’d purchased for my trip was called Marching Bands of Manhattan. That’s because that’s exactly where I was going –A few days ago, somewhat spur-of-the-moment, I loaded up my iPod with new Death Cab For Cutie, drove to the airport, and got on a Song flight headed for New York.

A veritable virgin, this was my first time in the city, and I have to admit, being there gave me a very special feeling… I think you’d call it love.

If you’ve never been, New York is every bit as exciting, eccentric and excessive as it appears on TV. Yes, Trump Tower with its sold-gold façade really does glitter gaudily from 5th avenue. And yes, the ice skating rink at Rockefeller Center is filled with clumsy, apple-cheeked children, even at this time of year. And it’s true, Central Park is smack dab in the middle of the city with its tree-lined canopy, offering an amazingly relaxing retreat from the concrete and clamor that surrounds it on all sides.

In New York I:

* Felt my heart swell as I looked down 86 stories from the top of the Empire State Building to see hundreds of taxis zip past thousands of landmarks like the Brooklyn Bridge, Ellis Island, The Statue of Liberty, and The UN and Chrysler Buildings.

* Figured out what enterprising Nigerians do when they’re not scamming kind-hearted, gullible folk via e-mail – They sell high-dollar watches and handbags for dirt cheap, out of cardboard boxes, on the DL in Battery Park.

* Saw two holes where steel structures had been in the days before September 11th. A metal memorial, fashioned from two beams, made in the shape of the cross, reminded me that this city is scarred, and I felt an immense sadness as I stood looking on the street.

And I guess it’s kind of poetic that a girl, (your mistress), who once referred to herself as the “Pimp of Produce”, would adore, so much, a place called The Big Apple.

View my NYC flickr photos here.