Lately I'm not loving my weekends. I have Fridays off from my horrid part-time day job, so I work at home that day. And then again all day Saturday. And by the time it's Sunday, I've worked at one or both jobs for six days in a row and I deserve a motherfucking break.
The problem is that I don't have anything to do on days off. My friends are now generally lumpable into one of two categories:
- Junkies who by Sunday will be on day 3 of the regular weekend crack binge, or
- Coupled lovers who spend Sundays like cooking brunch and combing each other's hair
and shit like that.
So last Sunday when Maria called I was delighted at the opportunity to get out of the house. She wanted to go to Rehab (the party, not the institution), and even though I'm trying not to start drinking at noon anymore, I wasn't going to do anything fun if I stayed at home watching the Wonder Woman first season on DVD again.
Each of us ate before going to Rehab, because although it's a brunch party at Julie's Supper Club, nobody ever says anything good about the food. We arrived at the place by 1:30ish to find a pleasant assortment of messed up friends in various states of drunkenness. There were hipsters who looked like they were at the after-after-after-after party- all crazy outfits like a sailor's uniform slit down to the ass crack in the back (on a girl), and long, artistically colored hair that probably looks fabulous on Day One when you've washed and styled it rather than Day Three when it's greasy and sticking to your forehead. And the grease didn't stop there- you'd need two hands to count the number of people with crack zits (a.k.a. "crackne").
I think they should use that in anti-drug campaigns. "Crystal Meth: You'll feel great but you'll have the skin of a dead teenager."
The hearty partiers were only the vocal minority, though. All sorts of other fags and friends were in the house. We sat up in the front window sipping mimosas generously supplied by JohnJohn, while loads of people would come out of the back room when their brunch was over. There were packs of rowdy lesbians, shy gay nerds, fag-less fag hags, high-end retail sluts, low-rent tattooed hustlers, and a big group of leather men who not only don't realize that leather is for losers, they all seemed to have bought it at North Beach Leather than someplace South of Market.
Speaking of SOMA, Marke was there, mooching drinks off friends and strangers. We were talking about inventing a South of Market Diet plan to match our active social lifestyles.
I intended on being there for one drink but we were soon on our third pitcher, with a couple shots mixed in to keep things interesting. Soon it was three o'clock and the party was supposedly over. We were just hanging around at that point, talking to friends while someone waited for his dealer to show up.
Note: When the party is over and you're still waiting for the drug dealer, you may have a problem.
Maria and I soon split and took the bus to the Lower Haight, where we were supposed to go see some art that she bought and flirt with the shopkeepers at Upper Playground, but she was secretly steering me toward her ex-boyfriend's house because she wanted to pick up some stuff from him. She is sneaky like that.
Then we walked to Blondie's for a drink, but you know how the drinks at Blondie's are: big. So the party continued. We ended the evening at my place with a threesome of goodness: nachos, beer, and Showgirls on DVD.
Sometimes, fans, leaving the house is a good thing.