I Left My Clothing in San Francisco

I mean I left my heart in San Francisco. That too. I was going to make the title "I left my underwear in San Francisco," but that would be too embarrassing. I basically did the same thing that I did for the trip to Ireland: pack old clothing that I'm willing to throw out, so that my suitcase has room for stuff that I buy on the trip. Mainly books. They're better than drugs.

I didn't previously mention this, but San Francisco is Fag Hag Heaven. It's such a hoot--I saw so many gay guys there, it was like being back at Webster University. Those were the days. They're flamingly obvious, too, at least the ones I've noticed on the street and all. And the theater where I saw Valhalla apparently specializes in gay plays and has two small auditoriums. You can imagine the audience was interesting. There's a neighborhood further down Market Street that's known for its gay community--the Castro, I believe.

I'm back in Kansas, Toto, and I'm sweating. But the cats are happy to see me. They express it by sitting in front of their food dishes and meowing. I mean by cuddling and purring.