CSI: Parking Garage

We parked in the garage of the new condos next door to R Man's building and returned this evening to find the rear window busted out. Blammo! I have to point out that in all my many years of living in high-crime, big city environs, this is the first time I've been the victim. It was just my turn I guess. So many times my old friends Magda and Cow Queen and I would be walking through the French Quarter and notice the glittering remains of somebody's passenger window. "Look," we would exclaim in our most Susan Hayward-ish voices, "Die-ya-munds in the guttah." Well, I'm not laughing now.

Much worse than the busted out window, which we're going to replace tomorrow, was the theft of my black leather jacket from the back seat. The bastard! The dear, dear Diane von Austinberg spotted that coat for me in a really pokey little junk store, never worn and only $80. I wore it until every crease reflected a matching wrinkle somewhere in my own hide. The bond between a gay boy and his leather coat is not an inconsiderable one and I'm going to miss it. The idea that some cracked out ho is wearing MY COAT down on Sixth Street right now... ooh, it makes me want to spit. Fortunately, I am too much of a lady, but still, first George Bush and then daylight savings time and now this. It's almost too much.