Geography

Because the two events overlap this year, there has been some confusion as to what point in time the Clean Air Fiesta ends and the meticulously ritualized 37th annual celebration of the occasion of my birth or so called "birthday" begins.

This is understandable and unacceptable. Fortunately, the distinction is one that is easily made.

Whereas the Clean Air Fiesta began on March 22 and ends tomorrow, my birthday or "Panchesario" as it is known throughout much of the Southern part of the Western hemisphere, commences today after I consume my first Nutmeg Cubano at approximately 8:20 in the morning and culminates as the sun rises on the thirty-first day following my birthday, approximately right about the time it is getting light out on the morning of April 37th.

Numerologists and mathematicians take note of the unique numerical coincidence this year.

Unfortunately, it is now a little late to do much of anything for the Clean Air Fiesta. After all, Ride the Bus For Free Day was Thursday. Did you miss it? If so, I am deeply saddened.

No, not much to do now other than load the unused Clean Air Fiesta charcol briquettes and aerosol bug repellant into the car and fight the traffic home.

There is, however, still plenty of time to do something for Panchesario.

This year in lieu of the traditionally expensive travel packages and Dirk Yates videos that oft come my way and result in me doing the same, I am asking that second-hand sunglasses be sent to me here.

Please note that by second-hand, I do not mean shoplifted. I realize that things are tight this year, but if you were to steal and get caught and go to prison I would at first wonder where you had gone and then when I found out you were in prison I would not come visit you. Not even conjugally. And when you got out, I probably would not want to pursue things any further either. And if while in the big house you got really buff and managed not to lose too many teeth? Well, I do not even want to say how I would respond then.

Besides, I am not able to condone shoplifting because it is wrong and probably bad for your self-esteem in some way. I know because I once shoplifted a tube of mascara I was too embarrassed to buy and while I will not lie and say I felt more than a little guilty about it afterward, I definitely ended up feeling like less of a man because of my actions.

Catch you later baby, I gotta split.

Dearest Yusef,

I waited forty minutes and when you did not show, I got a to go cup for my chai and went.

I want you to know I now have no hard feelings for you and I will always cherish all the flattering things you said on the telephone.

I especially took to heart the comment about me starching your pancho.

keeses,
Reek

ps. Please do not be alarmed if you get a phone call at work from some hippie kids. I gave them the number and told them you sell kick ass "essential oils" real cheap.

Actually, that day we were not really supposed to be going to the local shrine, El Tiradito, which in English means either The Little Outcast or The Tiny Throwaway.

Myself, I am inclined to go with the first translation, as most of the shrines I have visited would leave one to believe these shriners, they throw away nothing.

We were, in fact, supposed to be touring a tortilla factory in Barrio Yúpi, but when we could not find it we got hungry and started cursing at each other. Well, I should say, we started cursing at each other even more than we usually do. We gave up on the tortilla factory which probably was not even open anyway because anything of any cultural importance in this town seems to be closed on Monday and guess which day of the week it was? Bingo!

As much as I love Tucson, I often lament that if I lived in a more cosmopolitan setting, all the museums and such would be open on that most manic of weekdays. Oh, I just know it. C'est la vie.

Which is the name of a French sleep aid.

Anyhow, we ended up at a restaurant, El Minuto, which I believe in English means The Small Toe, and each and every one of us made certain to tell our waitress the sad story of how we had ventured downtown to learn where tortillas come from, only to end up lost and hungry, with precious little time before we had to be over to the WEBE to resume our afternoon tasks. As we were leaving, sucking on minty toothpicks and chomping down tiny York patties that I am not certain a certain driver actually paid for or not regardless of what he says, the waitress suggested we walk just beyond the parking lot and visit the El Tiradito Wishing Shrine.

"I am certain you will like it," she said. "It is dedicated to sinners."

I suppose she was right. It was a fascinating story. But as with many places where candles are burned and prayers are said, there was an awful lot of waxy buildup.

Monday afternoon finds me traversing The Pueblo doing my usual Monday afternoon houseboy routine: Think delicatessens. Think cosmetics counters. Think coin-operated ponies. Think it strange that in the middle of it all, I order a large plate of sushi well-done, and perhaps both of us will think it no wonder this routine takes so long to complete each week.

At least we shall be on the same wavelength.

As I float about town, the soundtrack to Jean-Jacques Beineix's 1981 action film, Diva, drifting in from the speakers out on the deck through an open window for that "other room" effect I do so enjoy, I think how peculiar that a boy who wanted to grow up to be an astronaut, grew up to be a boy who pilots one of only four privately owned hovercraft licensed for both on and off road domestic servant use in Pima County.

As special as that might seem, at the moment I do not feel particularly special. You see, I am feeling tired and thinking it is probably just as well that I did not become an astronaut because I understand amphetamines are a standard component of first aid kits on spacecraft and on a day like this, well, I am the first to admit, I would be tempted.

Haggard I may be, but it is more of a Joe Walsh haggard than, say, a Keith Richards haggard.

Are you aware that Joe Walsh ran for President of the United States in 1980 and for Vice President in 1992? I look at pictures of the free-spirited and good-natured Mr. Walsh and think life really has been good to him so far. Except for the bit about not winning, because winning is one of the few things -- legal things -- a candidate must do to be remembered as a successful politician. And that perhaps is why I forget about the campaigns until typing his name into a search engine.

Anyhow, I suppose I mention it to underscore that this afternoon's fatigue, not unlike Joe Walsh's public life, is hardly devoid of ambition.

Which is why I am purchasing picture frames for Van Dale. Van Dale is another houseboy, albeit a recently houseless one. Yes, the current situation is touching us all whether we all want to be touched or not. Its reach extending even to the cushy historic sector where, until recently, Van Dale spent his free time listening to quebraditas, dancing carefree jigs, and painting found objects. You know, walls, parked cars, and such.

Regardless of the tableau he chooses, it always ends up looking fantastic. Which is precisely why I was not surprised to see some of his work in a local group show of group members.

I was, however, horrified.

Horrified with a capital gasp. And not because of the violent content typical in his work, but because rather than hanging his work, he tends to tack it up or just fasten it to the wall with old chewing gum.

I know what you are thinking, and you are wrong. He is not a conceptual artist. He is a talented illustrator and hopefully not one who will be angry at me for taking it upon myself to frame his work without purchasing it first. At least not any angrier than I was to see him displaying it in the way that he did.

For shame.

Now if you will excuse me, I must file this Target gift receipt so that I can use it to embarrass him as well as part of some excuse to sue the pants off of him when he is rich and famous.

The Houseboys

• Panchesco, the narrator
• Anton Adams, best friend and unrequitted romantic interest to Panchesco, houseboy to Thomas Ache, dabbler in state politics via the fragrant and gussied-up senators he calls friends
• Oxidio, a bisexual android, friend to Paco Rabanne
• Van Dale, disemployed domestic, talented illustrator and painter of found objects
• Donnie Horowitz, consistently ranked number-one houseboy based soley on his self-reported abilities as an ice dancer, brother to Kendra
• Magritte Torres, master of illusion, not a boy at all

Other Domestics and Staff Members

Ferdy Tang, dashing Sino-Dutch driver to Thomas Ache
Kendra Horowitz, au-pair, ice dancer, Joyce Carol Oates scholar, cook, toenail hydrotherapy specialist, sister to Donnie Horowitz
Leonor, an energetic cosmetologist, a licensed (and extremely popular) anesthesiologist
Fondelio Doquiera, Thomas Ache's personal secretary, a master of exageración

Transport

Winchell, Panchesco's bicycle, a candidate for gender reassignment, an admirer of Jasper and Phillipe
Sundry nameless hovercraft, helicopters, Osprey V-22's and World War II fighter planes

Administrators

Thomas Ache, an attorney, chairman of the board of the West Eastern Blenman Elm Houseboy Organized Services (WEBEHOS), Tucson Green Party nabob, employer to Anton Adams, Fondelio Doquiera, Ferdy Tang, and in his own words: "Just another red-blooded heterosexual Libertarian" [with a penis fetish]
Geoffery Cragmont, WEBEHOS dental benefits coordinator, a cheap bastard
Nebraska, much liked model-model with jurisdiction over western region houseboys
Gary Numan, often forgotten but never far-away superstar recording artist and charter flight fighter pilot
Petrocelli, newlywed public defender/homebuilder living in the Tucson foothills, eager to start a family, but currently spreading himself too thin fighting crime to accumulate a viable sperm count

Artists, Instructors, and Intelligentsia

Brain, number cruncher, hovercraft mechanic, friend to Panchesco
Travi, Southern California educator, will eventually patent a method for teaching Protestant nannies the subjunctive
Mombacho, see Momo Tombo
The Osmonds, the nice, albeit noisy, Mormon Family in the neighborhood
Paolo Ovnis, Milanese filmmaker, director of the critically acclaimed 1999 film, Un Giorno Chiaro

Assorted

Aristotle, flatulent billionaire and self-made invalid, mentor to ambitious young people
The John Johns, cloned twins, created by a heretofore-unnamed pharmaceutical company to cash in on the perpetual and universal obsession with the Kennedy family
Sprint, Fondelio's wireless services provider
Yusef Geraldizaño, a funn buddy, any funn buddy
My Little Pony, a poodle dressed as a horse dressed as Farrah Fawcette with a Holly Golightly flare
Campbell's Cream of Chicken Soup, a mainstay of creative cuisine the World over!

When we awoke on the ufo, the first thing that occurred to me was what horrible decorators the extraterrestrials were.

There were none of the carefully chosen color schemes that one might find on Kubrick's spaceships. No New Age dip-and-drape sculptings of cheesecloth into surfaces rendered in shimmering blues and soft white light that Spielberg might serve up. Definitely far and away from any nightmarish, though highly stylized, mechanorganic interiors that H.R. Giger could create.

Blade Runner did come to mind, but I quickly dismissed that idea since that film is not about aliens and even if it were, the craft we found ourselves held prisoners in would make even the most morose replicant grateful for a stint as building super for a housing project located in the manufacturing district of an ecologically doomed planet's capital city.

Frankly, the place reminded me of a dilapidated construction I shared with four slobs in college.

If I was going to rely on Cinema to make sense of this experience, I imagined I would have to rent Animal House when and if these creatures finished with us.

I do not care if I am embarrassing you. Or using your real name for that matter.

Yes, you Anton Adams!

You caught me completely off guard this afternoon at Albertsons. Well, now Albertsons-Osco of course, though I do not know why they had to complicate things. They already had a drugstore for goodness sake. Nobody wanted to shop at Osco before. Do they really think they can strongarm the houseboys and homemakers of Tucson, Arizona into going there now? I do not think so.

You know what I think it is like? I think it is like when some unspectacular journalist (you know who you are!) is given a guest commentary on the number one rated news show in southern Arizona in hopes of winning hearts and a weekend anchor position. Well, it does not fool anyone. At least not those of us who wash his car and walk his dogs and pick the weeds on his vacant and inherited properties. Say what you will about our loyalties to each other, but we domestics are tight with the dishes. Know what I mean? Everyone, everyone in this community at least, knows very well what is going on even if they cannot discuss it openly and keep their jobs at the same time. Do yourself a FAVOR and stop pretending just because this is Tucson nobody knows what CURRY is, okay?

So yes, that is what it is like at Albertsons now. For the love of God, now they do not even have manicotti shells. Six different lines of men’s hair coloring and not a single brand of manicotti shells. What is up with that? I am no expert on the ins and outs of sexism but this smells like reverse disemination to me. I would venture a guess that more men who shop there are looking for manicotti shells than Feria. Who is going to buy all of that hair coloring? Do you know, Anton?

And speaking of feathers, Jesus Christ, that place is Cock Central. Not the Official Name. Ha, ha! Handsome men everywhere. Which I suppose is why I was somewhat surprised by you today. Oh, it is not that I do not think you are attractive. Of course you are! But I suppose I thought you were someone else. Definitely not a case of distant beauty, but like that, but mistaken identity.

Also, go ahead and call me a Rules Girl, but I do not date other houseboys. You bitch! I didn’t mean to really call me a Rules Girl. Anyhow, there I was cutting through the cheeses on my way to the butcher block, my hands full of buttermilk and Crisco, thinking that the cook has once again mixed up this and last weeks’ menus, knowing there is no way these are the real ingredients for Oprah’s Un-fried Chicken and I cannot help but notice this gorgeous young man with jet black hair eyeing the sirloin. How long was it that you knew I was appraising your counterfeit Prada belt buckle when I finally looked up and realized it was you? Wait. Don’t tell me. Now I’m the one who is embarrassed because I think you of all people in this Tonka Toy town can tell that when I get turned on by a sight like another houseboy poking around at his master’s dinner meat, the first thing I do is undress myself with his eyes. In this case, it was your big black eyes, like two burnt out fuses, the cause of a devastating and hot fire that ruins me for insurance purposes.

And I guess you caught me doing it this time, Fire Marshall Anton!

Anyhow, with you I am prepared to break all the rules. To be honest, ever since the first day I saw you there at the West-Eastern Blenman Elm Houseboy Organized Services, Inc. benefits package briefing, I have harbored secret love fantasies in the back of my head about us. Imagining what our homosexual union recognition ceremony will be like. I know how you hate the term gay marriage. Well, me too! Yet another reason perhaps that we were made for one another.

Today must be our lucky day. I am more than happy to drive you home because it is raining and that tightwad lawyer boss of yours claims that if people are going to take his Green Party bid seriously, everyone in his employ has to start riding bikes. As if this were Holland. Or China. He is lucky it is not, because if that were the case that hunky driver of his, Ferdy Tang, might just take that speech to heart one of these days and show up on a tandem. Oops, did I say driver? I meant boyfriend.

And the thing about his not drinking any Scotch that is not organic and expecting you to find such a thing—who ever heard of such a thing? With the few beads he gives you to shop with… Well, what a freak. I know of a bottle that won’t be missed at our house though and I think it’s just as well because I feel as if you and I, I mean we still have a lot to talk about.

Sir, I may not be twenty-one. I may not be able to drink in your bar, but I’ll be damned if I don’t drive others to drink, and if you know your business, that’s all you should care about. If you hire me, I may not be the prettiest boy in your club either, but I sure am pretty and nobody looks at my face anyway so why should you? And while I may not look like a big guy, mister, I assure you that all of this—it’s muscle.

But you know what? I know you care about all those things, but I don’t care about a one of them. Not at all. All I care about is stripping. I was born to strip. People who know me say I was even born naked.

Well, of course they’re trying to flatter me, but you get the point. If I had anything to say about it, I’d say I was born in this thong. It’s leather, you know? And as much as I love stripping for you and everyone and most importantly for myself, this leather thong is as naked as I get. One more thing: if there is a part of my person’s anatomy where you see thong, that means no touching there. Understand? That’s the forbidden zone you damn dirty ape, so don’t even try. Nothing comes between me an my thong.

Yes, my thong has a name, and no I’m not telling you. Not cuz I’m not proud of it but because I respect its privacy just like it guards mine. See? We are a symbichotic team with a big tea and and extra lemon, just like the ladies like it.

I don’t have to tell you this. Any of this. This especially, but I’m gonna: I was almost a secret agent. Even had a special passport and ball point pen with a poison tip and 24 hour military style digital clock and I was learning to skydive already, but my thong couldn’t get a clearance. Not because it couldn’t make any mercenary double-spy give up the most sensitive of dirty war secrets, but because it couldn’t get a security clearance. You see, this thong is made of Argentinian leather, and it seems there’s a rule against that. You might as well know too that it’s the only damned leather I’ll wear. So screw ‘em. Screw ‘em all.