Meeting people in Palo Alto made simple
Date: Fri, 30 Jul 93 22:26:44 PDT
Subject: Meeting people in Palo Alto made simple
[Oingo boingo gurgle fweep,
Bibbledy bobbledy frumpity gleep!
Forwarded-by: bostic@vangogh.CS.Berkeley.EDU (Keith Bostic)
Subject: Re: meeting people in Palo Alto and area ...
In article <email@example.com> HF.GXG@forsythe.stanford.edu
(Gustavo Galindo) writes:
> those were all very helpful clues as how to crash palo alto gay society. but
> if paul is too shy to say that what he's really after is info on tearooms,
> and public restrooms with cross-stall ventilation, where would you tell him
> to go?
Don't look at me, bucko. I didn't write that crap posted from my account; I
was in the bedroom, having wild sex with, uh, Morgan Fairchild's maid. Yeah,
that's the ticket. Then Gustavo and Paul, two exceptionally lithe young men
from the village, disported themselves on the lawn, to the amusement of the
gardener and Miss Phillips' older son, Becket.
Of course, we've all heard about the "shenanigans" when the crowd gets thick
at town hall's utility payment cashier window. It wouldn't be proper to tell
more, but wear underwear if you have loose shorts on! Or maybe not.
Anyway, to understand the tearoom lifestyle, we must understand the word
"tearoom." It is made of two simpler words, "tear" and "oom." "Tear," of
course, refers to Tyvek envelopes, and is a subtle reference to the need for
using condoms when indulging in activity of a sexual nature, such as eating,
breathing, and chocolate. And "oom" is the sound one makes when squicking.
Thus "tearoom" literally means "Tyvek squicking sound." It is at once clear
that the men's room at the Palo Alto Main Post Office is the place to go: it
is a good source for Tyvek and we all know about postal workers and squicking.
(Guns don't kill people; postal workers kill people. If we outlaw guns, only
postal workers will be outlaws.)
By the way, I've heard that Randall Terry is actually Ken Olsen in drag. So
don't try to out-wierd me, Gustavo. I have drugs your mother hasn't even
heard of, much less sold to kindergarteners. Worse, I actually attended a
Palo Alto city council meeting last night. It's things like that that give
you an intuitive grasp of "orders of magnitude," as in "root canal is an
order of magnitude more fun than the city council meeting." You wouldn't
believe how long one can debate the merits of vertical vs. rolled curbs,
and whether a variance should be granted for dick size, based on affirmative
action quotas. (The council never discussed exactly what "affirmative
actions" they had in mind. Instead, they kept talking about quatloos and
whether the earthman was Morg or Eyemorg.)
It is in trying times like this that one does well to remember the proverb
"PgUp for Command?, Home for Status," which so stirringly calls us to action.
And is it not true that Richard Stallman and Dan Quayle have never been seen
together? For Gustavo's plaintive query on the local distribution of
tearooms brings us back, eventually, to the basic conundrum of life: Why is
everyone else having so much fun, and who put the "glory" in "gloryhole?" Was
it someone from the Children's Television Workshop, on a bad day? Was it
Steven Hawkings on a good day? Or are gloryholes a natural phenomenon, like
drought, churchly pedophiles, and Rush Limbaugh's hidden desire to be a
lumberjack, just like his dear papa? Indeed, Gustavo's well-phrased carnal
question of concupiescence induces us to ask if tearooms are a central fact
only of twentieth century life or whether their philosophical implications
run so deep that even on board the starship Enterprise, gloryholes abound.
(And if so, why haven't we seen them? We've certainly seen every other
conceivable special effect.) Did the seminal man, frozen in a glacial ice-
pack for six thousand years, fall into his icy trap while searching for a
prehistoric tearoom? Did Nero, Caesar, Nebuchadnezzar, and Napolean perish
because their attentions were diverted, if only for an instant, by their
unresolved tearemeniscent meanderings? And if I had been a better person,
would I have ever had the chance to teach eight little children how to sing,
and then use that knowledge to escape from Nazi-occupied Austria, climbing
every mountain of dispair to find a ffew of our favorite things, in little-
used mountain outhouses?
Who knows? Who cares? I know this for sure: Ugly ducklings may bring May
flowers, but Milton Berle made a better woman than I'll ever be.
And what about Naomi? And what about Naomi?
-- Name Withheld
© 1993 Peter Langston