Palm Springs – July, 2010 (I know, I know…)

 

Yes, to those of you who judge: This blog is being posted nearly a year after the trip. Hush! Now if you’ll quiet down, I can get started. Here goes…

One mistaken letter is all it takes to be sent to a tropical beach at Puerto Vallarta instead of your original destination, the painfully slow crematorium known as Palm Springs. I wish I could say this could happen to a passenger, except there are too many safeguards in place to ensure you are getting on your correct flight  (one of them being that trifling bit about being able to read the giant screen at your gate that reminds you where you're going, whether you want to be reminded or not). Not being sentient (yet), luggage is subject to the whims of human error - like tagging something with the wrong airport code -  and so it was that one of the folks also visiting Palm Springs learned his luggage was probably beach side in Puerto Vallarta, ordering daiquiris, while he was in Palm Springs (do tell, where are these 'springs' you speak of?) without any change of clothes or his swim trunks - a necessary article of clothing to do the one thing that makes Palm Springs in July remotely enjoyable: exist neck deep in a man-made body of water (we'll call it a pool).

So why were we in Palm Springs? The same police/fire/military organization that Mike is a member of that holds the New Orleans event also holds a yearly Palm Springs event. Inexplicably, it's the biggest draw of the year, and is one part membership meeting, twenty parts pool party. I'm just going to put it out there - I don't comprehend desert living and I just barely grasp desert vacationing. That said, it was still an entertaining trip where I got to meet some great people, see friends made in New Orleans earlier in the year, hang pool side with drinks from the open bar (a recurring theme at these events) and be placed in more than a couple of bizarre situations, which are recounted here. First, a few pics:

Episode 1 (Otherwise known as How Mike Reduced Keeg's Bar Tab to Nearly Nothing [le scandale!])

Ah, the oldest profession: prostitution. Which, as it turns out, has nothing to do with this story. Geez, you guys, for shame! Stripping, however? Oh, yes, that most certainly has everything to do with this story.

The first night of the trip found us at Elevation, a bar hidden on the second floor of a strip mall in nearby Cathedral City. Given that being on a second floor really does elevate you above most of the surrounding desert sprawl, the name is entirely appropriate. On this Thursday evening, it was pretty quiet, and most of the patrons were fellow event attendees. Quiet, that is, until the underwear contest!

Yes, an archetypal drag queen was trolling the club looking for anyone willing to shed some clothes and dignity for the grand prize of $30 off their bar tab. A couple of takers, with perhaps no dignity to begin with, volunteered early. They were made to wait until a full lineup could be assembled, which meant the rest of the bar had to suffer through an announcement about the damn contest every few minutes. This may just be a clever way to encourage patrons to shove anyone (ANYONE!) on stage.

A couple more people were duped to join the cause, and the drag queen needed just one more before the show could begin. One of the new acquisitions, a fellow organization member, asked Mike if he would participate. Before Mike could get out a laugh, another member shoved him toward the drag queen and it was all over. Once she had locked onto his coordinates, a cheer section arose from other members nearby, goading Mike to go onstage. He looked to me, and hopefully in my tipsy state, I didn’t miss it as a cue to somehow bail him out, perhaps with a spirited and possessive objection. I believe my response was limited to laughing and shrugging. Mike, ever the trooper, made his way for the stage. With this, the drag queen’s merciless quota had been satisfied.

So let’s just cut right to it. You should have already surmised from the title of this story, in conjunction with what you’ve read thus far, that Mike might have won. Well, my little Sherlocks, you are correct (to be precise, he co-won)! But just how did he do it? Elementary, my dear Watsons (yes, I’m switching roles. I’m writing this and I can do what I want) - simple boxers. Being covered not in the fussy, suggestive and expensive undergarments of most of his competitors, Mike won an appreciative murmur from the crowd when he bared his All American boy-next-door boxers. The co-winner was none other than the fellow member who asked him to participate. The way I interpret this is that Mike was the true winner, but the other guy had to be given a finder’s fee, as it were, so was given an honorary win as well.

And so it was that a $30 bar tab was procured by Mike, and then passed on to his drunk of a boyfriend. It was an absurdly excellent first night in Palm Springs.

Episode 2 (Otherwise known as How to Strand Oneself in the Desert [why do people live here?])

Not content to let the first day have all of the hijinks, we expanded our repertoire to the next day as well. The big event of the day was a trip to the Palm Springs Tram, which takes riders 8500 feet up a local mountain to deposit them, seemingly improbably, in a surreal, woodsy ecosystem, about 30 degrees cooler than the desert below.

First, we had to wait for a lone shuttle (read van) to transport folks back and forth from the hotel to the tram. Because dozens of people were headed up, this spelled out a potentially long wait. Suddenly, two cars pulled up with more members and available seats. Mike and I pounced, not thinking for a moment to conceal our gloating smirks at having been able to cut our wait short.

As we began our ascent up the hill to the tram station, we learned two things. The chariot we were in was very low on fuel. The chariot we were following was beginning to overheat. These will be important concepts to understand shortly. In the meantime, take a look at this view as we made our way up the hill!!

Cool, right? Let’s turn the camera, and take a look in the other direction.

Yup, the car ahead of us broke down. A haunting desperation quickly set in, as we realized how isolated we were: A mile to the tram station. A couple of miles from town. Full cell phone coverage. Cars passing by every few minutes. Truly, it was a test of will and perseverance. To be fair, if we had ventured off the road and overturned some rocks, we may have run into a rattler or a pit of scorpions. Knowing that is enough for me to declare that danger was imminent.

A nice guy stopped by to take a look at the car - unable to provide a fix, he left us with a giant jug of water that he kept on hand. This act helped distract me from longingly looking upon this sign:

The driver of the low-fuel car, not wanting to tempt fate further, decided to roll down the hill again and fill up the tank. And finally, the shuttle van passed by us, with a load of passengers that had been the targets of our gloating smirks earlier. There was something strangely malicious in the way they waved as they continued up the hill. After they were dropped off, the shuttle performed its rescue mission, taking the rest of us up to the tram station.

The tram is totally serious awesome-sauce. Not only does the tram car transport you several thousand feet up a mountain, but it also rotates!! On the way up:

Mike is not only very excited to be on this tram, but he is also delighting in the decidedly childlike screams coming from decidedly non-childlike, grown men (not me).

  

As already mentioned, once you reach the top, you enter a wooded landscape, cooled by nature’s own very efficient air conditioning system.

The quick elevation gain left me a little headachy, which finally built to a point that I, sickly, began to desire relief in the lower altitude desert. Twisted, I know. So we rotated our way back down on the tram. Pretty sure these are the claw marks of folks who jumped from the tram as it returned downward, while screaming that they didn’t want to return to the oven:

Episode 3 (Otherwise known as Faded Colorguard Dreams [please, good sir, put on a shirt])

The second night, the group ended up at Hunters, in downtown Palm Springs. From within its walls, the following text (perhaps an SOS of sorts) was sent by me to a dear friend:

I am in the gayest place imaginable. A club where 60 year old men are living out their colorguard fantasies, twirling flags while some pixie covers Alanis Morrisette’s ‘Uninvited’.

I don’t think much else needs to be said. I did look up the cover artist, and it was the Freemasons, featuring Bailey Tzuke. I don’t know how all of those words go together, but it wasn’t a bad clubby version of the song (which happens to be my favorite Alanis track).

Episode 4 (Otherwise known as The Pool of Horror [let us never speak of it again...except for right this moment])

Short story here. What happens when an event attended by 150+ people mostly centers around the pool? You end up with an environmental disaster only rivaled by the Deepwater Horizon oil spill. A sunscreen sheen coated the pool, reminiscent of swirling cappuccino foam (only by sight, I did not taste it). The upside? Incredible sun-defying powers that left me pleasantly bronzed but not burned for the return trip home.

The other pool horror was a night dedicated to country music, where an unnerving percentage of attendees (many come from southern states) erupted into a sing-along to country lyrics and had impromptu jam sessions with banjos they pulled out of thin air. When Sweet Home Alabama came on, it struck me: Home...Home! There’s no place like home! I backed away slowly and clicked my heels three times, to no discernible effect.

*****

That’s it for the really interesting tidbits. There were no stand-outs on the dining scene to speak of, though you can read about the life-sapping slow service we received at the Old Creek House in my Yelp review. We tried In-N-Out for the first time and, while perfectly good (and cheap), we don’t really get what the fuss is about. Any devotees willing to try and convince me?

And my final take on Palm Springs: On the plus side, it is host to many exemplary mid-century modernist structures (mostly seen by way of automobile, so I am lacking photos), set in a searing, starkly beautiful landscape, which makes it a peculiar place to visit. Desert sunsets really are beautiful:

But, my webbed feet yearn for moister, greener climes, and when it comes right down to it, there is little to do in Palm Springs in the summer but enjoy air-conditioned environments or sit in a pool all day, which is exciting for only so long. All that said, maybe I should be keeping it in mind for a mid-winter break from the relentless wet-season gray of the Pacific NW. The people made this trip fantastic - had a blast either seeing you again or meeting you! We traveled with our buddies, Brandon and Miles, again – here’s a fun group photo of the Oregonian contingent:

What does the future hold for my oft-abandoned blog? Well, I still have a San Francisco/San Luis Obispo blog to write, from a trip we made last September. And we took a second trip to New Orleans earlier this year. Don’t be surprised if those never see the light of day, as we just hit New York City (my first time there) and Rochester this month, and they may capture my blogging attention. Maybe you can expect those in the next year.

Thanks for reading!