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I just spent the weekend in Palm Springs telling jokes and fighting bikers. Where should I begin?

First, let me say if you ever need a beautiful gay man or a very tan senior citizen, Palm Springs is the place. If there is a more abundant supply elsewhere, then I’ve not found it.

My goal for the week was to record every show and then make a CD for both people who have asked if I have CD that they can buy. It’s so cute when I set a goal because “This time I’m really going to do it!”

Unfortunately, it wasn’t my crowd. It seemed as if they were waiting for me to get off stage so the MC could bring up Red Buttons.

And so I ended every show by saying, “Enjoy your headliner.”

Even though I was the headliner.

My favorite thing about the road is napping. Oh dear, do I love to nap. It’s the highlight of my day. I plan it while having my morning coffee, which is the other highlight.

The hotel they put us up in wasn’t the greatest, to say the least, but sometimes that can make napping even better. Because when you’re asleep, you don’t have to look at stuff and wonder where things went wrong.

So Saturday afternoon I was getting ready for my beloved nap.

Here’s how it works…

Air-conditioning set to 32 degrees below zero.

Phone turned off.

Blackout curtains drawn so the room is pitch black, except for that one comforting stream of light coming through the bullet hole in the curtains.


Then I usually wake up a few hours later, have more coffee and go to work. Beautiful!

Not this time.

About fifteen minutes in, I heard the roar of motorcycles. Then I heard a woman who had smoked a lot of unfiltered Camels in her life say, “Go get some ice.” Nap over.

The gang of hooligan bikers that had just checked in to the room next to mine stood in front of my window drinking beer. I think they were having a “Who has the best fake laugh” contest. (And for the record I would just like to say that I think they were all winners.)

Luckily, it only lasted about two and a half hours.

What happened next? Nothing. I just waited. At about three a.m., when I heard sweet, little, drunken snores through the paper-thin walls, I called their room. When they answered, I hung up. Then I waited for about twenty minutes, so they could fall back asleep, and I called again.

And again.

And again.

Who’s the winner now? Huh, pussy bikers?