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One of my favorite things about living in a city is that feeling that you never can tell what's going to happen next. In New York, you may run into supermodels and famous actors. This never tends to be the case in San Francisco. After all, San Francisco billionaires are more likely to be low key. More often than not though, the folks you run into out and about our crazy little wonderland are twice as fascinating as those Yorkers, and I think that L.A. goes without comparison; L.A. isn’t a city, it’s an experiment.

On a Friday night, after I relented attendance at a friends 80s themed house party, I ran into none other than a certain nemesis of mine, the editor of a major national gay lifestyle website. I was mortified, as I was high off the unfiltered sake I had drunk at Blowfish Sushi, and the last thing I wanted to do was encounter this chance encounter at a small gathering of tacky strangers and a backbeat of Roxette and Expose’.

Gloriously, and much to my surprise, he was on the same DUI highway as I, and when amidst the theme-party all one can do is revel in its tactlessness. I ended up chatting with him so long that my boyfriend went missing. He fled to the comfort’s he had found at the Blowfish counter while my nemesis and I covered topics from porn to politics. We have even exchanged an email since the time. Just shows that a Friday evening can really bring people together.

The following day, at the House of Salad rehearsal performance, things didn’t go quite so smoothly. The gaggle of gay glitterati was overjoyed by news of a personal invitation from Peaches Christ (herself) to join her drag theater campaign to change the San Francisco sewage facility to a memorial waste facility center in honor of George W. Bush. However, that was all that was mutually exciting. Poor, sad, and tired Ambrosia lost her voice trying to silence her drunken den of rabble-rousers, and at the end of the night the number still looked a fright!

After all the hullaballoo was over, and Sunday wheedled its way past the brunching hour, I found myself drinking mojitos at The Transfer right about the crack of three. The weather was shit, and getting drunk seemed the only decent alternative to other, more wholesome Sunday activities. All the hipsters came out to celebrate the birth of their incumbent queen, Frankie Sharp, who modeled the numerous Jeremy Scott designs that had been handed down to him from a Paper Magazine photo shoot with Linsday Lohan. I had been petitioned to help Ambrosia out with her command performance, and mayhem ensued.

As we embarked on her personalized rendition of Roisin Murphy’s "Let Me Know”, I found myself getting a little distracted by all the flash and glitter of lycra stirrup pants and oversized shirts. When it came time for me to light the sparklers on the birthday cupcakes, I found to my dismay that they where not lighting! I attempted to play it off, handing off the platter of unlit cupcakes to my drag counterpart right on the beat, but when she handed them back in an attempt to have me follow through -- disaster! The cupcakes tumbled off the platter, landing squarely in my lap. Covered in cheap frosting and sprinkles, I knew not what to do. As I stood there, awash in mishap, trying to light a sparkler that just wouldn’t take, I wanted to cry. I had let down my mother, and I was sure that things would never be the same. I lowered my head, and suck out of the club in horror as soon as the number was complete.

So while I was trying to forget all about the events as they ensued, others where ensuring that realness and ferocity are still rapidly approaching our sordid little gay lives! Like the infamous gay brothers who will be throwing yet another party, this time enticing the homos to get drunk on a Monday night. And then there was the club-catch whose sullen vibes almost ruined the weekend for all of his friends and followers. The Blogs SCREAMED as he missed appearance after appearance. But, you ask, who are these people, and where will this Monday Party be held? Did anyone ever find the tragic club wunderkind? And what sf based pop sensation snubbed Frankie Sharp at his Jeremy Scott themed banjee birthday soirée? I can tell that you want to know, but I am sure you know by now that I will never tell! I have to keep some sort of mystique, and besides, I never break a Pinkyswear!