What a weekend… Sorry (Jason) it’s taken me so long to write. I know. I suck. But I had 2 Galas in a row and while awesome, it wiped me the fuck out. The first was some big dinner dance, the highlight being that my dear friend Michael was there, and we schmoozed the night away together while drinking all the shitty Merlot we could get our hands on. The low light was when the bartender hesitated serving me because he thought I was some sort of worker. Michael had a heartattack, and began screaming at him while wildly waving around a Blood Orange cosmo.
Afterwards, I met up at the Monkey Club with Big Chris and two of his friends, and then Jason and Brendan. Brendan bet me $5 I couldn’t get some hot chick to come sit with us. Needless to say, “Flora” joined us not 2 seconds later and I took my payment in the form of vino. Apparently, Flora, while stunning, isn’t exactly Einstein, and Brendan dismissed her soon after. Or she left because I mistakenly kept calling her Fauna. Who knows. And more importantly, who cares?
Saturday was my big fundraiser for work, and if I do say so myself, it was a smashing success. The only mishap was that the caterer brought pork into the Kosher kitchen, but the Jews were pretty laid back about it. Alex helped bartend, sneaking in a six pack for him and Ben. Apparently, the donated wine and Champagne wasn’t doing it for them. Lex and I then ran off to go meet our cousin Mike, visiting from Arcata. We swung down the block for a couple drinks and then crashed at home.
After Sunday brunch, Mike, Alex and I headed over to Clothing by the Pound and tried on hats. I don’t want to worry anyone, but I’m pretty sure I have hobo lice. We also saw the hilarious Shawn of the Dead. Watch it.
Big Chris came over and the four of us drove to the Pelican Inn for pints and darts. It was actually really fun, and Michael was highly entertained by the shenanigans of my censor-free sidekick. The Pelican Inn is in the middle of nowhere and is pretty much Ye Olde English Restaurant. The pub section is tiny, and on rainy Sunday evenings, it’s packed with hippy hikers and Marin millionaires. It also has a really hot Irish bartender, who is so adorable, I’m too chicken to even speak coherently to him. I merely bat my eyelashes and ask him to put more drinks on Chris’ tab.
Finally, we drove back to my parents, sat by the fire, ate steak and played heated games of Scatagories. It was hilarious and Big Chris and mom are trading e-mails today, still contesting the official language of Indonesia. (Don’t ask.) Dad, true to form, pulled out weird liquor after dinner and made everyone taste his bizarre libations.
I’m getting way too old to go out every night, and the fact that I regard dinner at my parents as “going out” is yet another indication that I’m practically 1000.