Sunday, January 11, 2009

i brought the comb...

Mel and I hadn't really had a chance to catch up since I've been back from vacation, although you can read my myriad of thoughts on our attending "Roasted Supe" in next Wednesday's Culture Blog. Here's a sneak-peek: Aaron Peskin is a shithead. 
Anyway, the Missus and I agreed to go to Burnell's going away party at Otis. Burnell is a charming genius who works for Clemens and is moving to D.C. in the hopes of changing the world. I used to think Otis was this marvelous and mysterious bastion of cool I'd never be able to breach. Ha! Trends are fickle friends and no one goes to Otis anymore. You can tell because I can walk right in. It's almost sad how quickly the 'cool new place' becomes the hangout of pleat front khaki types who read a blurb in Hemispheres
Mel and I sat ourselves easily at the bar and ordered a round of Shirley Temples. In a dramatic gesture of solidarity, Mel has given up the sauce so I "never have to be sober alone." The bartender looked at us like were nuts and Clemens smirked supportively, but trust me, Shirley Temples are the new martinis. It's certainly better than a boring old Diet Coke or Pellegrino, and somehow, ordering a drink with more than one ingredient makes me feel like I'm having a cocktail. A child's cocktail, but a cocktail none the less. 
Thanks to SFist, we knew that the Castro was showing Stand By Me at 9:45. Politely, we hugged Burnell goodbye and good luck and snuck out of Otis. I thought I was dressed very fashion forward in my pink silk kimono from Anthropologie and matching silk slippers, but wandering anywhere with Melissa is like walking the sidewalks with Giselle in her underwear. After the 8th hobo remarked how "fine" her "ass" is and two men gave us their cab, I felt like Rosie O'Donnell right after she got that really butch, lesbian-identified haircut. Dinner at the Four Seasons made up for my sadness at not being hot enough to be invited into some stinkers cardboard box and as we dined, Mel and I noticed that our bottle of Pellegrino was being dramatically chilled in a champagne cooler behind my seat, our glasses refilled with such a grandiose flair, we could have been having Opus One. 
I have to admit, I feel bad not ordering alcohol at fancy restaurants. Our tabs are dramatically less expensive and while we've decided to take our extra money and become patrons of the arts (Goonies and Adventures in Babysitting will be at the Castro on Feb. 6th!), pairing my Kobe with bubbly water isn't exactly going pay our server's cable bill. My dining companion found my concern absolutely ridiculous. And she's certainly right, but I can't help it. I still so identify with being a raging boozehound that I'm a little lost without a martini glass and a hangover. I'm convinced everyone must be thinking "Why isn't that woman drinking?" when I should be pleased they're not thinking "Why is that woman reenacting Sister Act?"
After dinner, we headed over to the Castro and settled into a packed house for Stand By Me. The movie was part of something called Midnite for Maniacs, where you can see 3 movies for $10. Our only interest was in Stand By Me but of course, we were seated in the midst of people who treat film viewing as a sporting event, screaming out comments and questions to both the evening's host and the actual film. I hate these people with a passion I can hardly articulate. I went on a date with one of them once, the kind of guy that yells out a "jokey" comment at the pre-movie crap on the screen in an attempt to entertain the entire theater only to be met with annoyed and embarrassed glances. These are the same people that boo, hiss, applaud and Irish-whisper unnecessary questions and facts during a movie.
"What's that guy's name?"
"Sutherland, I believe."
"Yes! What's his first name?"
"He starred in Flatliners. His father is an actor of note."
"His first name is on the tip of my pierced tongue."
"He has such quiet depth."
"How frustrating. What is his name?"
KIEFER, motherfuckers! Kiefer! My God. Shut up. I'm trying to watch a goddamn movie over here. 
We capped off our night with a cab ride from El Weirdo leather bomber jacket man, yet another of Mel's admirers. After eavesropping on our post-film conversation, he dove in. 
"People were talking in the cinema?"
Douche! Already one sentence out of the gate and douche. He then goes on to tell us all about Airport security and Dick Cheney. It's January 11th. I regard anyone who still needs to moan and groan over the Bush Administration as dated and pathetic. The election is over! Making fun of Sarah Palin is over! The war? Yeah, we got it. Bad idea. You are no longer a topical and informed liberal. You're now one of those people still whining about Watergate. As far as I'm concerned, you're a 21st century colonist shaking your fist at that asshole across the Atlantic, King George III. 
Anyway, Bomber Jacket went on to tell us how the Sept. 11th terrorists didn't use box cutters and then he didn't understand a joke Mel cracked and  hemade kinda a big deal about it. 
"Perhaps you're smarter than I, but methinks I did not understand your point."
Give it a rest, pal. 
I headed home around midnight, finally crawling into my own bed safe in the knowledge that my best friend and I were all caught up and while I will never be nearly as foxy as her, at least I'm not the blight on society that talks during the movie and is still kvetching about Karl Rove... 

4 comments:

Melissa said...

Don't be ridiculous! You looked fabulous! Not everyone can pull off jeans at the Four Seasons restaurant. Besides, I'm sure the second guy was talking about your ass.

Stephanie said...

If you're looking to increase your child cocktail repertoire, ask for a Roy Rogers sometimes and watch the bartender freak out. The stuffed Trigger isn't included.

Brock said...

Re Roasted Supe, will you jump start a Scope fund for Frank Chu?

Anonymous said...

Using the word "methinks" is a big tip-off that you're speaking with a douchebag (or leprechaun).