I woke up this morning, as usual, struggling to regain consciousness and mumbling about some bizarre dream or another. But today, unlike other days, I touched my face, pulled my hair and made sure my legs were under the covers. Made sure that I still did in fact have legs. Not that I'm an incredibly superstitious person, but because odds were against me of surviving last night. More specifically, because I ate dinner at El Coyote on Beverly. At the very corner table that Sharon Tate ate her last meal at...before she was MURDERED (with unborn child) by Charles Manson. And nobody puts unborn baby in the corner. (Too much?). And I was HALFWAY into my meal before a fellow patron even informed me of this. All of a sudden, I was sober Susan (not to be confused with Suddenly Susan, or more specifically, Brooke Shields. Because I don't resemble Brooke Shields. At all), and my tamale tasted of rubber, and my margarita of mouthwash. Would I survive the night??
Just barely. A near-death experience of painful, gay, painfully gay karaoke in West Hollywood almost ended it all. A paunchy, unfortunate crooner had actually convinced himself that he WAS Aretha Franklin. His dance routine amounted to little more than Sweatin to the Oldies, and something vaguely resembling pork rinds permeated his set. But I'm alive, El Coyote, I'm alive.
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