Date #4: A Goat and Two Beatles
I spent the day with Have Glitter Ball Will Travel, a man I met last summer who is perpetually on the road as a lounge singer. He got in last night from playing on a cruise ship which took him from Alaska to the Panama Canal.
We were going to have brunch at my favorite place. He told me about his romantic history as we waited on the restaurant's shallow steps and I quickly realized I was in too deep. Trudy, Xandra, Caroline, Annette… the guy has had more aborted engagements than Johnny Depp. Our conversation was thankfully interrupted by our food, great Denver omelets and "scones" that are really coffeecake with raspberry jam.
Since nothing says "I don't live in L.A. anymore" like pumpkin patches, crimson leaves and hot apple cider from roadside stands, I wanted to take a drive to the country. Glitter told me that his father was a famous musician in the '60s. While my childhood memories were of a series of gray cats and my parents' martini-swilling friends, his were of John Lennon, George Harrison and Bob Dylan. I contemplated being two degrees from at least half the Beatles as the autumn countryside showed off gold and ruby as if it were a bracelet.
A handmade sign pointed us to a Pumpkin Patch and Corn Maize. We walked through the rows of corn, which were mowed into animal shapes and had facts about the particular animals when you were in the part of the maze shaped like that animal. We were in the horse's tail when I started to feel like I was in a different maze -- the one from The Shining. Like Jack Nicholson being taken over by an evil, snowed-in hotel, Glitter Ball was taken over by his penis. His kisses, requests and expectations got harder and faster. He asked me to come for Christmas in New York where he would be performing the lounge version of the Nutcracker Suite at some of the finest hotels in Brooklyn. Visions of sugarplums mercifully showing me an escape route danced in my head.
I picked out an oddly shaped pumpkin, which he desperately insisted on paying for, took a picture of a baby goat and we left.
Apart from repeated apologies about the controlling nature of the penis, the ride home was as silent as the gray October fog drifting in from the Sound.
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