Thursday was a party at Richard and Barbara's home in Woodside, where we'd be entertained by a 14 piece Czech jazz band.
In convincing Mel to join me, I promised her free booze and fancy, friendly hosts.
"I'm just going so I can tell people I heard Czech jazz."
After said jazz, we headed back to the city for dinner at PSC, where X met us and we roped him into joining us at, where else?
Hey, he's the one that introduced it to us.
Mel and I spend so much time at Le Club, we should probably start Le Support Group. Derek and Allen treked down to join us and declared their immediate distaste for Le Club. Wait. How can you hate Le Club? It's filled with douchebags who think they get to be douchebags because they think they have a lot of money and it's our job to remind them that's they're douchebags, regardless of their stock portfolio. What's not to like?
I guess beer-drinking straight boys aren't into that. Derek announced, "I put on a collar for this?"
It being a school night and all, I crashed at Mel's. The problem with Le Club and Mel's is their proximity to each other. It takes exactly 56 steps, door to door. I counted. This convenient watering hole with it's own gratis Town Car provides the ideal excuse for what X calls "a nightcap."
I headed to work the next day in the same black blazer and jeans from the night before.
Schedules coordinated, Mel and I knew we had cheese class with Cynthia and Dan, our hosts from Napa. I ducked out of work and dashed to my folks' for a quick shower, throwing on the jeans and blazer combo and booking it to The Cheese School.
Yep, we double date at the goddamn Cheese School.
In New York, Dad had wanted to take a class at the famed Murray's, and as it was sold out, I checked out the cheese education scene in San Francisco, hoping I could sign him up for something fun and stinky. Turns out, the Cheese School Schedule is completely sold out. Except for drop-in night. Not so much a class, but a wine and cheese tasting, we dropped $30 on all the wine/cheese you can handle from 6-9pm. It's a great deal and word is clearly spreading. The place was packed. Conveniently, I happened to be with THE wine and food photographer, who will hopefully e-mail the photos I made him take of the Cheese School, and I'll throw 'em up here later.
This is a hot tip, kids. If you at all like cheese and/or wine, it's a hoot with exposed brick, hipsters and yuppies and from now on, me.
You can really drop in anytime from 6 until 9, but getting there early is wise. By 8, we had to rely on Cynthia, or as she's now known, the Little Italian, to throw elbows and fill our cocktail plates full of cheese for us. And as I learned last night, don't fuck with Cynthia. She regaled us with a hilarious story of how she chased down a purse snatcher. I almost knocked over a frame on the wall, I was laughing so hard. We left and had a chatty little walk up to North Beach where we ran into Jackson and had dinner at Capp's.
Oh god, Capp's? I spent 4 years of my life and my liver there when I worked next door. I wasn't able to sneak us into BBB, my clout apparently diminished in the 4 years since I've been there, so we roped Dan and Cynthia into joining us at, where else?
2 nights and 1 outfit in a row, I waltzed into Le Club.
Le Douche wasn't around. But his equally obnoxious twin certainly was.
As I approached the bar, I began chatting with "White blazer."
WB slurred his words and dropped names. Upon hearing, "I know Gavin Newsom," I got the giggles. As Dan and I later discussed, one knows the level of douchebaggery by how soon into a conversation one asks, "What do you do?"
WB asked immediately.
I could've answered with a myriad of responses. In reality, what pays my bills these days is my day job. But I've got a little trump card in my back pocket which I use to either impress or frighten.
"I write for the Chronicle."
Do I mention that I merely write a blog post for the Chronicle's website 1-2 times a week? No. Of course not. That would negate the whole "I write for the Chronicle" trump card.
So WB responds, "Oh god. The Chronicle sucks. It's incredibly boring."
On and on, he went, equating the Chronicle to hobo toilet paper.
"Who's your editor?" He asked, his tone suggesting I didn't actually have one.
"Oh!" he snarked. "Eve Batey. Of course."
"She's amazing! Do you know Eve?" I politely asked. Because I'm one text away from 'my editor' eating WB alive.
"I know of her."
Ooooohhhhh. Whatever, WB.
I then ask what he does. He won't tell me.
I ask his name. He won't tell me.
Finally, he reveals, "All you need to know is, I'm a Turner."
"I'm a Turner."
It's like he was throwing out Astor or Vanderbilt. I felt compelled to question further. "Forgive me, I have no idea what that means."
He rolled his eyes as he rubbed my back. "Ask around."
He then went on to detail his boredom with the Chronicle.
Alright Drunky Douche. I'd had enough. "Well, I certainly hope I haven't bored you this evening. I'm going to excuse myself and go back to my friends."
"I'll find you in a few." He slurred.
As I returned to the table, Mel leaned over, excited. "Oh my god, Bethy! Do we like him?!?!"
No, Melissa. We do not like him.
Dan was drinking 7000 year old something and by midnight, Cynthia the new designated driver was texting their kids not to lock them out. They left us and although we'd met the very nice Alex, it was time to go. But not before Mel stepped outside briefly, leaving me with a German tourist who could not have been less impressed or attracted to me. The second our friends stepped outside, he looked at me and said, "I go now."
Um, okay. I'll...um...pretend to text people on my cell phone from 1973.
Mel soon returned.
White Blazer was outside as well, enjoying a cigarette on the sidewalk. When he saw Mel, he walked up and said, "Whensss your mom getting married?"
Wisely, she ignored him. So he approached several men walking past. The next thing Mel knows, WB is getting his ass kicked. Like pounded on the ground, ass-kicking.
God bless her, Mel promptly walks inside and announces to Colin, "White Blazer over there cannot come back in. He's drunk and he was rude to Bethy."
Wow. It worked.
We split soon after, booking those 56 steps. This morning I woke up, putting on the same black blazer and jeans.
I brushed my hair. I put on make-up. I had a pashmina, for Christsakes. I was remotely presentable.
Since it was so gorgeous outside, I decided to walk the 30 or so blocks back to my car. As I strolled around Nob Hill a few blocks away from Mel's, a man emerged from an apartment building, took one look at me and said, "Walk of shame, huh?"
I wonder what gave it away...