Last night, I received my first fan letter from my dear, dear friend who shall only be named as K2.

Thanks K2 for making my night. I’m sure that there will be lots of dissappointed hunks out there, but I’m honored that you are saving your (hair) for me! K2 does know just how cheer a girl up - just last summer he saved me by handing me a beer and a joint and said, “AB, this is an intervention, honey. You must break up with that boyfriend of yours!”

SUBJECT: SHUTTING DOWN MY ESCORT BIZ 

Hey Guys,     I know this will come as a let-down to many of you hot men, but I am taking a hiatus from my popular Escort service. Yeah, I will miss the hot sex too. I must do so, however, in order to remain true to my Credo, “Pushing 50 and Still Cute!” 

You see, the wacky, wonderful Woman who was willing to assist me in coloring my hair has vanished. She may be in Peru, seeking psychedelic Cactus; or in Argentina, organizing farm workers; or in Gaza trying to rescue (or seduce) young Palestinians; nonetheless she is nowhere to be found. So, until I get to Supercuts for a trim – and get the sides colored up so I no longer look like a Super Delegate – I am taking a leave of absence.    

I will keep you all informed.    

Until then, I remain your humble, hot, and honest bottom,    
K2

Our expansive Albuquerque pad is dubbed by my roommate Michael and I as “G-Unit,” because our unit is “G.” (For an apartment letter, it’s definitely the best one to have, - so gansta. . . yo.) G-Unit sits smack in the middle of sort of an odd space. Adobe house on one side, an alley on the other, the Christian Science Reading room on the opposite side of the street and a large bank with a drive thru on the north side. I’ve seen Christian Science Reading Rooms before and always wondered what they are. Hmm. . . I spy an adventure - and possibly a shenanigan - on the horizon.

But first, meet my neighbors across the alley. Phil and Diane. Their houses are connected. Except Phil’s is nicer with a huge tree in the back yard that is glowing in the springtime morning air with magical new green buds. The day the buds first popped was last week. I had a personally and professionally difficult week last week, but still managed to notice the popping of the buds. No matter what is going on in life, no matter how hectic or crazy, I try to notice the subtle change of winter to spring. . . those first moments of the earth waking up from it’s long winter’s nap are complete magic.

And as I was headed to the dumpster, I ran into Phil and introduced myself and we just stood there together in awe and amazement of his budding tree in the pink morning sunrise. We chatted a little about the neighborhood. He’s lived here twenty years. Seems like a cool, older hippie dude. And he drives an old Jag - not that what sort of car someone drives impresses me, but when I happen to notice not one but three older Jags sitting behind the houses in the alley across from me, I tend to perk up and notice quirks like that.

I asked him what he thought of our little art loft complex, brand spankin’ new. And he slowly said, “Well, it looks better than it did. Used to just be an empty lot. Kinda ugly really.”

A couple of days later, a lady cut through the parking lot with her two large dogs. She headed to the house next to/connected to Phil’s and I stopped her. We talked for awhile and she mentioned she’s lived in the neighborhood for twelve years. “Oh you know Phil then,” I said. “I met him the other day.”

“Phil’s my ex-husband.” She smiled.

“I knew it!” I said. “I knew something was up when I saw the cool old Jags.” I told her. That you were family or something.”

“Yeah, something.” She laughed.

I worked in The Burque for one week last November. When I was here that last time, I splurged and purchased a fine silver and turquoise Pakistani necklace from a Swedish woman with an intense handshake who runs a new-age type crystal shoppe/bookstore. I wore the necklace to my next destination, Chicago, whereupon, the very next day, one of the platelet hinges snapped. Admittedly, this happened while I was dancing super-hard with a bunch of friends in front of a juke box at one of my favorite Chicago beer joints, Estelle’s. Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed, but also, kind of impressed with myself that I was able to break a hundred dollar necklace simply by some crazy booty-shakin’.

Yesterday, I was in Inga’s store again, this time purchasing a hard-to-find book. I re-introduce myself and mention that I purchased a necklace last fall - and that it broke two days later. Inga pauses, looks at me over the top of her bifocals with a gaze equally as intense as her soul-stroking handshake and says very evenly, “You know, dear, zat vhen someting like dis happens, it is because zat necklace has protected you from some-sing.”

“What?” I ask. I don’t really know what I was expecting her to do about the busted merchandise, but I truly wasn’t expecting her to tell me that the necklace saved me from some sort of attack - psychic or otherwise.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s true. Once, I was coming home across a darkened parking lot, and my necklace broke.” She shuddered. “I know it protected me from some-sing!” She smiles. “I can recommend someone to fix it . . . ”

For the record - I do have a tendency to believe these sorts of things, but that belief system certainly has limitations. The only thing that I can’t shake about her explanation is that . . . . OK, let’s pretend that she’s correct and that it did “save me” from some-sing. Why did it break whilst I was dancing, surrounded by friends? I have to hand the prize of proprietary excuses to my local crystal shoppe owner, Inga. I’ll be back to her store; it’s a good store. I just won’t buy any more jewelry there.

Ahh, it’s been lovely. It’s been strange. It’s been fun . . . I have some interesting neighbors here at the hotel.

On the other side of a brick wall and alleyway, are some older homes, most of them with junk sitting in the back yards. One morning during a pink and orange sunrise, an old lady dressed like some kind of sherpa with a turban on her head puttered around outside in the cold, hopped on an abandoned, dilapidated exercise bike in her back yard and squeaked out a slow five minute ride.

We’ve got agent Barney Fife as security officer. He always stands in the same spot all night long in the hotel parking lot, his thumbs hooked inside his belt loops.

Across the street is some super secret, massively gated government facility with video cameras everywhere and signs literally every three feet proclaiming in no uncertain terms that no one should try to sneak inside.

Then there are those wierd rapper kids next door who like to slam doors. I’ve never seen them, but let’s just say, we’ve heard one another.

But today . . . today is a great day. Today is my last day living the hotel dream (at least for awhile.)

The phone rang at 7:30 AM.

“Uh, hello, Anna,” said the extreme country accent. “This is Bones. I’ll be there in ’bout 15 minutes.”

“Huh?” I muttered, half-asleep. “But you’re not supposed to be here til 8:00-ish!”

“Mah ETA is 7:43, ma’am.” And then the AAA tow driver hung up.

I heard Bones arrive. It wasn’t necessary that he call to announce himself. I could hear his radio blaring some kind of whiny country music throughout the entire hotel parking lot. Bones of Bones Towing was a young man in his early 20’s. His country accent was so thick, I noticed, because he barely moved his mouth when he spoke.

I explained that I didn’t necessarily need a tow, but he couldn’t find his jumper cables, which I thought was sort of odd. He proceeded to try to help me pop the clutch of my car by pushing it across the fairly level hotel parking lot instead of down the hill, which was not only completely ineffective, but also another oddity.

Then I hopped into the Bones Tow Truck and we were off. I’d given the address to AAA the night before, but I knew roughly where we were headed. And when he took a left to go toward downtown Albuquerque instead of a right to go toward the Firestone service station, again, I thought it was a bit odd. “Hey, man, it’s down the other way,” I said.

“Naw,” he replied. “I punched the address here in my GPS, we’re on the way.”

I decided to let it go. I’d get there eventually.

Albuquerque’s morning sky line is filled with hot air balloons. I’ve been wondering why, but haven’t had the chance to ask a local. “Hey, Bones, why all the hot air balloons in Albuquerque in the mornings? What’s that tradition all about?”

“I don’t know. I’m a tow truck driver, not a balloon driver.”

He drove quietly for a few moments, then out of nowhere, flipped a bitch in a church parking lot, exclaiming “Mah GPS fucked me over!,” and headed in the direction I wanted to go.

UPDATE: Here’s my driver and his GPS!