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Sometimes the most anticipated weekends just donít get off to the right start. Despite hazy Thursday plans and ideas, Friday night nevertheless left yours truly with the sensation that all my good intentions had been, for whatever reason, ineffective and ill-received. Weekends like these leave little room for options, when only the following things will most definitely occur: karaoke, work, sleep, or extensive cleaning. I am glad to report that I had the opportunity to cover nearly all these categories of normality, but regret to inform you that my house is still a mess!
Friday night took me to one of the most outlandish places that I have been to in years. My boyfriend took me on an outing of special importance to him, to have a dinner with two of his older, distinguished, home-owning friends on the top of Bernal Hill. Above the city I was greeted by this lovely couple and their two-year old daughter, whose hipster bob spoke volumes for the precocious nature she exuded. While watching The Lion King and sipping on an aged Zinfandel, I had the odd feeling that parenthood might not be the gruesome task that I had once imagined.
After an evening where smoked tempeh helped to bridge the generation gap, I found myself in what was bound to be the first of several pasta induced comas that where sure to ensue in the proceeding day. I woke up on my couch at nearly midnight, feeling the numbing sting of missed opportunity. I was not the only one, either. The calls I missed were tit-for-tat for the calls I placed, all blaming the endemic syndrome that seemed to strike my group of friends on such a bleak and windy evening. I shook awake the boy and moved to the only place that was logical, a local tavern, where a single round of cocktails turned out to be just the nightcap I needed.
As Saturday raised its lazy head, it proved to be similarly low-key. I was beginning to fret that my weekend would never go much farther than that pasta-full feeling that lingered from the night before. I was right, and even working at the normally exciting, if not a touch diabetes-inducing, Bearacudda could shake up my carb-y mood. I was happy to know that if I was going to feel bloated and lethargic, at least I was joined by good company. I rounded out my weekend singing On-Demand Karaoke and eating, you guessed it, more pasta, in a NOPA living room with sweatpants on. Thatís what I call good times!
In a shocking turn of events, Monday pulled the cloak off a dismal weekend and left the scene energized. The bags that drooped beneath our weekend eyes had firmed up, and it seemed that each night of the week was more exciting than the one before. The weeknight clubs where busy, filled with localebrities, and even the iconic Lady Kier of Dee-Lite fame made her club rounds, tempting the gays with her fresh face at 44. Turlene, dressed as the Olympic Torch, turned out some favorite tragic drag queens, which chased her down Castro Street in Joggers outfits. I mean, things really turned on their 5-inch heels.
So, it turned out, that the past week was a metaphor for the torch run on Wednesday. Everyone, including yours truly, had big expectations, but the city did what it tends to do best, and turned out a huge surprise that we never would have guessed. We still inspired the nation, but just not in the way that was intended! Leave it to you, San Francisco. You never cease to amaze me!
So which SF club-writer has found Lady Kier, and fled to Sedona to promote world-consciousness and a certain brand of eco-sustainability that you canít find in the clubs? And what SF club demi-gods are throwing a misnomer of a toga party at a Greek Disco event? Well, you know I will be wearing a chiton, and keeping my lips sealed. After all, its my life and my friends, and I never break a pinkyswear!