Saturday MorningsThere's something vaguely sacriligeous about getting up at a specific time on a Saturday morning. On Saturday, one should sleep until one wakes up on one's own... well, ideally, one should be able to do that every day, but realistically there should be one day in the week set aside for sleeping in. And since I take the Grandmother to church on Sundays, and have to show up at the office the next five days of the week, it seems that Saturday should be sacrosanct.
But here I am on a Saturday morning, not snoozing and loafing and lollygagging, but getting my drags and bags together to go to an Imperial Coronation in San Jose (and taking a brief moment out of the day to complain to you about it). It's a long and boring tale about protocol and will-call tickets and dressing venues gone suddenly awry, but whenever you involve drag queens and travel in any equation, it becomes immensely complicated and unbelievable time-consuming.
And last week I was up at the crack of nine so we could get a reasonably early start on our drive to Bass Lake. And the week before it, was something else (San Francisco Coronation, but that didn't make me get up early... I can't remember now what did, only that I was up early for some reason). I can't even remember the last time I got to sleep until I woke up of my own volition, without some dratted alarm telling me what to do.
Oh, well, it's the price we pay for hobnobbing with morning people and living in their crazy dawn-to-dusk world. I once plotted with my cousin Jamie to overthrow this world run by morning people; our plot fell apart, though, when we realized we'd probably have to get up really early in order to launch a proper attack, which would defeat the purpose of the whole thing.
So off I go to pack, shave, and jet. I hope your Saturday is as restful and easy as a Saturday ought to be... by all rights, you shouldn't even have to read this until Monday afternoon. Ta!
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