Listen to this articleThe road to Park City is fraught with danger and excitement.
One cold Saturday morning several winters ago, my sister Logan queens and I were having our regular pot luck coffee klatch. One of the more culinarily-talented sisters brought a scrumptious coffee cake which would have made Bree Van de Kamp simply green with envy. The rest of us more challenged chefs provided an assortment of store-bought bagels and donuts etc. When the conversation had one of those seven-minute lulls, an inquisitive/nosy princess rummaged around in the entertainment center and discovered the latest “educational” video tape that I had smuggled behind “The Zion Curtain” and popped it into the VCR. I learned in princess finishing school that porn on display at a social gathering can be a faux pas, yet the attention of all was riveted to the TV and all my efforts to distract the queens with shiny objects and sugary snacks failed miserably. After engaging in a highly caffeinated and passionate discussion concerning our favorite “educational” stars, we became weary of thrashing out the “artistic merits” of Bel Ami versus Falcon and needed a new diversion. What else to occupy the spare time of a gaggle of queens but shopping? We concocted a scheme to drive to Park City, shop at the outlet mall and then have a sumptuous dinner at the Claim Jumper Hotel Restaurant.
My 1975 Buick Electra land yacht, Queer-Tanic, already had two strikes against her. As you may recall from previous chapters, during her first voyage she lost her battery; on the second voyage she lost her wheel. I was beginning to experience some trepidation at the thought of driving her more than five miles from the repair shop where Mr. Good-Wrench could fix her up and take all my money.
We decided that since Queer-Tanic had a questionable track record, we should not put all our queens in one basket, so to speak, and divided between two cars for added comfort and additional logistical support in the unfortunate event that She should strike an iceberg or encounter further mechanical difficulties.
The shopping was great. There are many shiny objects at the outlet mall to attract even the most reticent of queens. Dinner was a triumph, although splitting the check 15 ways was a little daunting for our delightful but mathematically-challenged waiter.
All was right and good with the world until the return trip back to Logan began. Upon starting Queer-Tanic’s engine, the alternator light came on. Being an avid listener of Car Talk, I felt I was equipped to handle this situation. While trying desperately not to chip a nail, I lifted the hood and attempted to tighten the alternator belt, using the tire iron as a lever, but to no avail. It was now very dark and the weather was freezing. We needed to get home or risk becoming ice sculpture attractions on Park City’s Main Street.
To maximize Queer-Tanic’s range with no functioning alternator we needed to conserve electricity, so I turned off the radio and heater. We sang camp songs for music and we had to huddle together for warmth. The windows all fogged totally opaque. I asked a cute boy sitting in the front seat to constantly wipe the fog off of the windshield so that I could see to drive, even though I was hunched closely over the steering wheel and gripping it tightly as if driving in the Indy 500. Since we still had to use the lights — and Queer-Tanic has a lot of lights — as we traveled down Parley’s Canyon, the headlights became gradually dimmer and dimmer.
Fortunately we were able to reach Salt Lake City before the lights went out altogether and the engine quit firing. Pulling off the freeway onto State Street while looking for aid, we stopped at the most handy parking lot available. It just so happened to be the magazine store across from Sears, where certainly there was a ready supply of adult “educational” magazines. The younger princesses squealed with glee and ran quickly into the store “for warmth.” The more reserved queens also shyly gravitated into the store when they thought no one was looking, also “to get warm.” Of course several of them returned carrying suspicious brown paper bags. Hmmmm?
Luckily I carried jumper cables, color coordinated with my nail polish, in the trunk. While the “girls” were inside the magazine store, we hooked up Queer-Tanic’s battery to the other car and charged it for a few minutes. It became readily apparent that the short charge would only last a very few miles. Since driving by the Braille method seemed too dangerous, we were frustrated that the jumper cables were too short to string between the two cars and be able to drive while connected, and stopping every 10 miles to charge up the battery with jumper cables from the second car would not be practical for the 100-mile trip back to Logan. In defeat, we drove to some friends’ house and begged to borrow their car to be able get the group safely back home before becoming Popsicles.
I returned the next day, charged up the battery and since I didn’t need the lights, I was able to drive all the way to the repair shop in Logan. Strike three for Queer-Tanic.
Like always these events leave us with many eternal questions:
1. Is it even possible to become weary of discussing porn?
2. Could jumper cables double as nipple clamps?
3. Should the color of jumper cables be coordinated to my nail color or the car color?
4. When huddling together for warmth, is groping your neighbor appropriate?
5. If I provided “services” to my mechanic, would he give me a discount?
6. Could I write off the alternator repair as an entertainment expense?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of:
The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear
