What a weekend; I started it in a monastic trance and will end it the same way. In the middle, though, I was dressed as a gigantic baby, correctly identified 5 of 6 candy bars that had been melted into a diaper, had a BOB reunion at Le Colonial. I’m not sure why the web page for that place is about a swank restaurant, when I was there it was full of shrieking harpies and hip-hop where the bass would go in and out every few minutes. You ever listen to Dr. Dre with the bass turned all the way down? Not fun.
Lesley and Neetha hostessed a baby shower for Judd and Amanda, and a cast of thousands was on hand to show support and watch the San Antone Spurs tear the Sack Kings a new one. I was a bit disturbed by the bowl of guacamolè’s closeness to the bowl of easter M&M’s, but the food was great. I also got to meet the famed Matt & Jinny of L.A., and was reunited with the excellent Helen, who gained fame and fortune by kicking Dr. 4nyay off his chair in Trials Pub one night. Kendric and Trish were there, and I hadn’t seen him in a while so that was cool too.
I won’t go into the festivities, as you can pretty much see all of ’em if you click through to the pictures, but it was a good time and I got slightly drunk.
Later in the evening, I was up in San Francisco for Neetha, Tarq, and Aaron’s birthday party at Le Colonial. It was a good time too, but I didn’t get to sleep until 5am due to a late night Hustler strip club option invoked by the birthday pals. It really was a horrible time, mostly because they stop serving alcohol at bar time. And while strip clubs are slightly creepy, if amusing, when drunk they take on a horrifying air once the liquor has run its course. Ugh. barf.
I awoke at the crack of mid-morning and started my epic quest to get home. A bullet-point chronicle of my adventures follows.
- Bleary-eyed, I walked from the hotel down to the Powell Street Muni station. The tourists were already starting to line up for cable car rides, and it was obvious that anyone who was up past midnight was not yet awake. The streets were alive with the chipper and the cheery (at least as much as you’ll find in downtown SF). Once the hungover emerged from their crypts, the city would probably take on a dour air as they returned, zombie-like, to their homes and small apartment rooms.
- I couldn’t figure out how to get change for a dollar at the Muni station. Therefore, I couldn’t turn my worthless two $1 bills into a more useful 8 quarters.
- I waited on the Muni platform for Cal’s favoritest train of all time: The Legendary N-Judah. The only piece of public transportation he worships more is the Twenty-Two Fillmore bus line.
- Once I was safely ensconced at the CalTrain station, I was notified that the train ran only every hour on weekends. I had just missed one, so I had a while to wait. Safeway, with its recently restocked shelves of Gatorade and doughnuts, called out to me from across the street. The end result being that I stared at the magazine rack with bloodshot eyes long enough to have to run back and catch the next train bobbling Gatorade, a Newsweek, one glazed doughnut, and one chocolate-covered doughnut.
- The train ride was uneventful, if long, except for the part where I fell asleep and then awoke terrified that I’d missed my stop and would be orphaned on the mean streets of Gilroy. *shudder* That joint is the Garlic Capital of the fucking universe, can you imagine being stuck there for eternity?
- Once off the train in Mountain View I was presented with a not-entirely-life-or-death dilemma. I was tired, and I had to go to the bathroom, but I wanted to stop at another, entirely more morbid Safeway and pick up chicken for an experiment I was planning on conducting in my kitchen using a crock-pot and an everyday orange. Kinda made me wish I still had that diaper handy from the day before. By the time I alighted on my own doorstep, I was ready to pass out, take my ancient shoes off, take a shower, poop, make dinner, eat it, check the internets for news, take a nap, and upload my pictures all at the same time. So I took a nap. A five hour nap.
My experiment went well, but the frankenstein chicken dish monster needs a few tune-ups before I’d present it proudly to a parent or girlfriend. The hypothesis was to take Wirkus’ BBQ chix recipe in a whole new, exciting, ZESTY direction using SOYVEY Teriaki sauce and the rind of 1/2 an orange. I say we cut that down to the rind of 1/4 an orange and we’ve got a marketable dinner on our hands.
A reminder that whazzmaster.com will be closed next weekend as I’ll be in Chicago to attend a wedding with the one-and-only Stacy. Try not to wreck the place. Scientist should be back from The Galapagos or wherever by then. I hear his true plan was to go do some on-site testing of his economic theories using big turtles. That fucker loves turtles.
— Oh, its on your eyes\With a drink from her wine\But we drank for the serpents’ vine\Now we live in another time\We could live together..