Rich Good of the Psychedelic Furs waits for tacos after the Nevada City Film Festival.
Well, my little dreamlettes, I’ve returned from the Nevada City Film Festival. As vacations go, it was a pretty, exhausting one. (Note the comma after “pretty,” denoting two different adjectives, you little sex-kitten, you.)
It’s a funny thing when the boyfriend and I look forward to returning to Los Angeles for some peace and relaxation. Not that the scent of sun-warmed oak and sounds of a rushing mountain river stress us out (and, conversely, helicopter traffic jams overhead or the drunken homeless barfing taquitos ‘n’ semen on our precious parking spot is as a purification rite for our fourth chakras), it’s that, whenever we go to my tiny hometown, we jam-pack it with so many activities and loved ones that we barely have a moment to shop the boutiques for high-priced, cantaloupe-bubblegum scented soap!
My nephew, Orion, prepares for puberty.
If you’ve never been to Nevada City, you really ought to treat yourself, especially if you’re in some form of romantic relationship, because it’s a great place for all forms of cuddling. And if you’re a single, heterosexual man, you should visit Nevada City post-haste, because the ratio of gorgeous young ladies to males – high to low – is something frequently remarked upon (and because there’s such a shortage of handsome dudes, you don’t have to be a pretty boy to snag a “10”.). If you’re waiting for the punchline here, don’t – I’m being serious; it’s really like this.