As Eddie Murphy’s failed ‘80s pop debut ripped my eardrums apart, the LED screen in the limo read:
Friday night the MSG and I went to the first West Coast screening of “Outfoxed: Rupert Murdoch’s War on Journalism”, and boy, was it good. (The honey-chile-covered hazelnuts that the MSG smoked for me were even better.) The director was there for Q&A afterwards, which was fairly interesting, except for the woman who stood up under the pretense of asking a question and ended up going off on our government’s anti-Kennedy conspiracies. That part was just plain fascinating. I wanted to buy her a shot of a tequila across the street at the Mexican bar and find out just what the hell else she believed.
Speaking of tequila, I have only one person to blame for my introduction to its wondrous hell, and that is this man. (Actually, he was the only one way back in ‘99 during an ill-fated business trip with the ill-fated start-up to say, “I don’t think we should introduce her to tequila this way.” But I have to blame him because he didn’t let me fall down or run away or rob any banks after I had had a few shots.) Crism is one of my favorite people because, well, he’s friggin’ brilliant and hilarious and never rubs either fact in anyone’s face. A true Renaissance man, that one. Just check out his website.
Anyway, after the movie, the MSG and I went back to my flat so I could pick up some stuff for the weekend. Inkbot and her mom were watching “Stargate SG-1” and as I got ready, the MSG, Inkbot and I ended up chatting and laughing in my room. I was so happy at that moment: everything focused into this single point of I am here now and this is exactly where I want to be, and I rode that moment, perhaps am still riding it.
The MSG and I ended that evening with some leftover pot roast and a few games of Uno before we crashed. Saturday morning was the farmer’s market, again, my favorite place to watch the clockwork turn and churn and come up with marvelous inspiration for that weekend’s meals. We played Neverwinter Nights most of the day, then got ready to go out with his friend S., who is here from England for a while for work.
And this is where the evening went horribly, horribly awry. But who ever liked wry anyway?
We met up at a pub, chatted, felt low-key so headed to a restaurant bar, chatted, and then of course the “let’s keep this all chill” turned into “let’s go to this hot new club” which turned into “let’s hail a taxi” which turned into a limousine pulling up and offering us a ride for ten bucks.
I shit you not: we actually went to a club in San Francisco in a limo. There were champagne glasses and little blinking knobs and leather seats. To the strains of “my girl wants to party all the time, party all the time, party all the tie-hime” the three of us stepped out and up to the bouncer and have I ever felt more surreal than that moment? No, I really haven’t. Even when I feel as if I don’t fit, I know what I don’t fit in. At that point, I didn’t even fully understand what was going on. I just knew I was having a fucking blast.
The club was packed, which means bodies pressed up against one another, and with my claustrophobia issues, that was fairly surreal too. But hey, I got to dance with an extremely sexy man, so I was able to stave off the freak-out for a while. When it was finally too much to take, the MSG and I excused ourselves, while S. was talked into staying longer by a man who kissed my hand in a rather Barry White manner. Twice. Did I mention it was surreal?
Today we are playing with the MSG’s brand-new smoker. It’s pretty and it smells good and we like it. We’re smoking onions, peppers, more honey-chile-covered hazelnuts, and ribs. I should be writing my statement of purpose but instead I’m writing this, and pondering more Neverwinter Nights in a while. Or a nap. A smoke-flavored nap in the evening sunshine sounds just divine.