White Legs, Piney Woods

[Yesterday was another trip to the Jackson/Sutter Creek/Pine Grove part of the beautiful green forest, up there yonder in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. Close longtime readers will recall that, not too long ago, I journeyed thither with my mom to see Tom Jones perform at the Jackson Rancheria Casino, Hotel and yeah-sure-it's-a-Convention-Center-it's-on-the-GOP's-short-list-for-the-'08-convention. That's where Tom Jones stole my phone but later gave it back.]

[Anyway, Chris has a friend from his early '90s years in the City of Saint Francis. Since she autopseudonymizes as "Frannie," we'll go along with the gag. Frannie married "Fred" some time ago when Haight Street was becoming just a little too much of a freakout, and they now have two rugrats and have just built their dream home up in the pine woods. (Yes, we Typical Fags have inevitably followed Auntie Mame and have dubbed their house Upsy Pinesy.)]

[I know we're not the only state in which you can both live in the pine woods and work in a city, but it's a relatively new concept for me. (Fred commutes an hour to Sacramento.) I'm used to people like my parents, who moved to farm country in the '70s so they could commute, thus transforming said farm country into Just Another Suburb or, as in my hometown's case, Boutiqueville. No doubt Pine Grove/Pioneer (it was unclear in which burg their little piece of sylvan glade falls) will become a Sacramento/Stockton suburb real soon, with a Wal-Mart on Daffodil Hill and skate punks torturing the few remaining raccoons along Highway 88.]

[It was a pleasant enough get-together: tri-tip and polite political disagreements are their own reward, and I like the piney woods for their own sake as well. I got to meet several more people from Chris's past, none of whom took me aside and whispered that I better get out while I can because he tortures raccoons or anything similarly menacing. I keep wondering when the initial impression of brilliant handsome sweetness I got the day we met will be shattered. I'll be sure to let you know.]

[Dear "Betsy," Chris's friend who drove us up there, suggested that on the way back she drop us off at Walnut Creek BART because she couldn't face one more drive into the city (she lives in affordable Vallejo, the downtown of which Chris keeps describing as "moribund" in an approving tone of voice). Bet and I will have to have a little chin wag while reviewing a California highway map at some later date: when going from Pine Grove to Walnut Creek (yes, the whole day had Laura Ingalls Wilder overtones), and quick transit time is a priority, one's route shouldn't take one through Sacramento. She ended up driving us to Rockridge anyway, since BART stations aren't as easy to find from the freeway as you might think. But let's let the past go, right?]

[I'm here at the Ashbury flat, it's almost noon, and I'm waiting for Chris's interminable waking-up process to end so we can clean up the joint and move him back to his Hovel Sweet Hovel down on the Panhandle. It's still beautiful here (I happen to like sunshine and high-60s/low-70s, and certain Seattlites can just never mind), and I gave in to the madness and wore shorts today. Thanksgiving's in four days, I'm introducing Chris to the family, and I deserve to let loose a little here and there. If people point, laugh, and make comments about my white legs, well, they can just never mind, too.]

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