(continued)
All that same weekend I had to feed Rich the Bitch's cat because obviously he didn't read the log in which I clearly specified I DON'T WANT TO FEED ANYMORE CATS.
On Monday of that week I went to Rachael's house for a training on how to feed her cat when she goes away on her honeymoon because she didn't read the log in which I clearly specified I DON'T WANT TO FEED ANYMORE CATS.
On Thursday I went to The Transfer with Maria. The Transfer is a gay bar at Church and Market where the old, infirm, and very ugly congregate. It was the bar you could always go to when you were feeling down, because you were always guaranteed to be the best looking person there. Or at least, you were, until it was sold and outfitted with a DJ booth and graffiti art, and Mauricio Aviles spinning semi-ironic classic rock.
As the reconfiguration took place over the course of less than two weeks, nobody noticed that the place had changed. I am so used to forgetting it's there that I walked by it at least three times during its new ownership without noticing.
The best part of the evening was watching the old patrons walk through the door and seeing their faces drop. They'd give the room a quick glance and, not seeing anyone over 50 or wearing flannel, quickly hop back out the door as if the floor had been covered with tarantulas. Often, they'd stand outside for a minute, looking at the door and up at the sign to make sure they were in the right place. "It was right here last week!" you could almost hear them say. "Now where am I going to go? The Castro is a young man's neighborhood."
Luckily, there are one-way mirrored windows so I could watch the expression on these guys' faces as they came to the realization that the place they usually spend 3PM to 10PM every weekday is now essentially off-limits to them. It's as if an immigrant family moved in to your living room. It made for great entertainment.
Marke met us there and the two of us left Maria to her own devices (a dangerous thing),and headed to Aunt Charlie's for Tubesteak Connection. This club night has been going on for well over a year, every week, in a sad little gay bar in the Tenderloin, with the same DJ playing essentially the same records (classic underground disco) every week. I mean, it's a fun night and the gay hipsteratti come out to represent, but I just don't understand why it's still the Place to Be. Especially when I'm usually someplace else.