Well, CS was in SF. He brought a companion with him who had promised to be his lady chaperone for his first Pride celebration. I haven't heard from him since. He can be like that. I tried to tell him that most of the bathhouses are no more. Some people you just can't reach.
Maybe I'll hear from him when he comes up for air.
We had a mostly uneventful weekend. Went to a local spring-fed pool here - Mortons - brought the dogs, lounged on the grass snacking, listening to the old "Social Living" album by Burning Spear at a respectful volume. That, and Black Uhuru's "Red" and The Abyssinians "Satta Massagana" and Glen Brown's "Termination Dub."
I had made myself a THC concoction before we left. I spent the day with mirrored shades on, smiling at everybody, walking into the pool at the shallow end, nodding, terrified of what was unfolding in my head, terrified of speaking. Or rather, terrified that I would not be able to stop talking once I did, which I spent the day being on the verge of. I misjudged my spoonful of the magical medicinal elixir. THC ceases being a soft drug at a certain level. I can't tell you what that level is for you, but I now know what it looks like when overfilling a 1/2 tbsp measuring spoon from our kitchen drawer, for me.