Pretty Fraulein

Photo by Rebecca SchoenkopfOh, we completely forgot to write anything about Valentine'sDay,didn't we? Huh. I can't imagine how that slipped by us.

Oh, I'm lying! Yes, I can! It's because, well, I hate everyone! Yes! I do!

That's right, childrens. You've somehow found yourself in a way-back machine to every Valentine's Day column I've ever written. Lucky!

Today, as I write this—and verily, it is Valentine's Day, that sweetest of all the days in the world, when people who need people get to go to dinner at a restaurant (me, I prefer a picnic)—my desk is suspiciously rose-free, especially for a person who needs people and so is dating seven of them. (My momma says I have to date everyone who asks me, even if they're creepy—”Just take cab fare!” she says in that pragmatic way of Commies worldwide.)

And yet thesheriffhasn't called to invite me for facials.

What is this county coming to?

You'll forgive me—you always do—but I've been so taken with Jeff Gannon,the gay prostie hanging out in the White House Briefing Room (and who got his first press pass when his employer, Talon News—an arm of GOPUSA—had been in existence for four days), that I can't really keep my focus on all the many brilliant (and sexy!) things I did this weekend. This guy's implicated in the ValeriePlameaffair! And judging by the pix on (one of) his gay prostie website(s), he's hung!

Me? I hung in some bars.

One bar and then another. Maybe a third. Saw some country. Saw some more country. Some of it was mighty-fine country. Dude, this guy's got his dick out all over the web! Dude, he's been subpoenaed in the Valerie Plame affair!

This, of course, has all been discovered by various liberal bloggers (mostly AmericaBlog)and the miracle of the Internets; I haven't updated my blog in ages. (It was just supposed to get people to buy my shirts, but did you? You did not!) Really! It's awful! And as for the last time I went investigative reportin'? Please. Did I mention I was at some bars?

I don't know why they even pay me anymore (and handsomely!). Oh, yes, I do. It's because of my milkshake. Yeah, it's better than yours.

So Friday night, my little brother Cakeyboycalled; he and his hot chick Alexwanted to come down from LA and hang out. I couldn't take them to the CanyonInn,my very favorite carniceria; I had visions of everybody hitting on her (she's superfine) and the screaming mimis that might ensue. And for some reason, if my of-age brother gets drunk and starts swinging, you know my parents would say it was all my fault. (I took him to Xfor his birthday, and he went out with his buddies and blew his paycheck on drinks after I went home, and who was to blame? That's right! Me!) “Best behavior! Best behavior!” Cakey and Alex both assured me, cuddling away and rubbing noses and loooooving each other like a couple of the cutest otters. I still wasn't gonna chance it. How about Cook'sCorner?It's a biker bar, sure, but you can shame a biker real easily into letting your young brother live—a good biker cares what the pussy will think, whereas the boys of the Canyon most assuredly don't.

So he we headed out to Cook's, down 27 miles of rainy road. We could have driven to Catalina! Who knew?

Even in the downpour, the place was packed, and ChappedCheekswere puttin' on a real nice show in real nice Western shirts. They played “Frulein”for us, but without any enthusiasm. “It's a real boring song to play,” said they, to which I can only hmph! And remind them that better bands than they have played it for me—and without my even having to ask.

“Frulein, Frulein, walk down by the river/And pretend that your hand's holding mine! By the great stars above you/I swear that I love you/You were my/Pretty Frulein.”

Come on! It's pretty!

Chapped Cheeks were great fun, segueing in the second half of the evening into a lot of real Nashvilley nouveau country that we could kind of hate (might as well have heard some TimMcGraw),but nice? It was!

All of a sudden at 11 p.m., the whole bar emptied out, and we were left with pretty much just CrazyBrenda,who was very sweet, and I made out with my date (I had a date) because we'd told Crazy Brenda we'd been married for six years but still kept the flame alive. We tried to buy Crazy Brenda a CoorsLight,but the keep seemed to know who it was for and in a very tactful way ignored the order. You know. Because she's crazy.

The next night, I tried to talk my dinner companions into getting off their asses and going to a strip club, but I couldn't get them off the couch. For a strip club! And they were all dudes!

You know who else probably wouldn't be interested in a titty bar?

Jeff Gannon (male prostitute)!

We did end up at Cero's,where alcoholics go to die (if'n they don't already live in Reno); every 20th patron is in a wheelchair; young Latin men gaze with eyes full of longing and love at their big, beautiful beloveds, with whom they can't go out in public; and where the dance floor is always packed because they are old people who never forgot how to party (as a verb). The band has a big, fat, old singer who just smiles and chews his gum because all is right with the world, and they do a mighty fine “BrickHouse”and even SteveMiller's“Abracadabra”in between their country and western sets, when a black-hatted man from the audience comes up and sings an entire set with them from “AllMyExes(LiveinTexas)”—onwhich his beautiful baritone keeps up with all the changes and flats—through to some old standards covered deliciously by DominicChianese,then onto “Folsom Prison,” “King of the Road,”and then straight into “Stray Cat Strut.”The next audience guy did all oldies, like “What'sYourName”(the MaryandSueversion, not the littlegirlone), and the hippie we brought with us (Portland by way of Oklahoma City) smiled deeply. He was the world's suavest hippie, actually, tall and wry and wearing a cool hippie suit, and he didn't smell hardly at all.

Then I went outside and macked on my date (different date), and all was right with the world until he up and peed on my bed. But I'm not dating him anymore even though he's a supergreat guy (he up and peed on my bed), so I guess I'm really only dating six people. Wait, five, because that one guy showed up late for dinner after I'd showed up early, and by the time he got there, I'd joined the nice table of traveling salesmen from Atlanta. Well, probably four, really, because I don't think I'm going out again with the sleazy 52-year-old, even though he's superfun. Wait, who was the fourth?

Do I hear three?

And yet the sheriff still hasn't called me to go out for facials.

But I know a certain man-ho who's probably got the time.

Oh, dear! I forgot to remind you about my birthday. It's Friday, Feb. 25, darling ones, and gifts, as always, can be sent to OC Weekly, 1666 N. Main St., Ste. 500, Santa Ana, CA 92701. What is this county coming to?

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