Sunday, July 26, 2009

love all, steal all...

Sometimes, you meet your friend's friends and you get a little worried because it looks like your friend has shitty taste in companionship. That has never been the case with Melissa. Everytime I hang out with some treasured soulmate from Mel's life long before I knew her, I fall madly, madly in friend.
Which is how I now feel about Sean, who's been visiting all weekend. I can't even begin to explain Thursday night and Friday night is captured on the next SF Appeal video, so I'll tell you about yesterday.
I met Melissa and Sean for brunch at MarketBar at the height of Farmer's Market Frenzy.
"This is some world series people watching." Sean observed, and my God, did he have a point. The whole Ferry Terminal was packed with middle aged lesbian couples buying more basil than they could possibly ever use and arty wealthy folks in mildly racist hats they no doubt bought off their sherpa, to whom they still mail non-denominational holiday cards.
We considered ordering the "Seafood Plateau" which includes oysters, lobster, crab...Sean called it the "Seafood Holocaust," but settled on fancy burgers and pizza. In observing the highly liberal crowd peppered with mom-jeaned tourists buying peaches side by side with leather daddies, Sean announced, "Diversity goes both ways."
"You should put that on a t-shirt. You'd be murdered here."
"Really?" Sean asked. "What's the problem with that?"
Mel and I both looked at each other and mimicking most of Noe Valley's reaction to said shirt, whined, "What's that supposed to mean?"
I think that would be an incredibly experiment. Put a perfectly reasonable, tolerant person in a "Diversity goes both ways" t-shirt, drop them off near the organic arugula stand at the San Francisco Ferry Building Farmer's Market and watch!
Tara soon joined us and we decided to walk down to Pier 39, away from the locally produced goat cheese and into the sourdough bread bowl. Due to a long and hilarious story Melissa and Sean told of spending September 12th, 2001 drinking hurricanes in the New York Hard Rock Cafe, we decided to recreate their day in the San Francisco July version. Wide-eyed, Tara entered and announced, "I've never been to a Hard Rock Cafe."
I find this odd as I was one of those terrible 12 year olds with a very tacky Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt collection. Many an awkward photo exists of me sporting my black and neon Hard Rock Cafe Oslo t-shirt standing in line to buy my white and burgundy Hard Rock Cafe Tokyo t-shirt. I truly felt my familiarity with the Hard Rocks of the world gave me immense musical street cred. Yesterday, I found myself slightly embarrassed just to walk through the doors as Phil Collins blared from the speakers and Tara deemed all of the memorabilia on the walls "a huge fraud."
Potato skins, nachos and 5 rounds later, it was time to go. Melissa had talked Sean into changing his flight and staying an extra night. She then promised to make it worth his while by taking us all to supperclub.
We paid our bill and stood up to collect our belongings.
"Wait a second." Tara stared at us. "My purse...it's gone."
I moved her chair, our jackets, the bag of souvenir hurricane glasses. No purse. It had been hanging on the back of her chair and at some point in the afternoon, the king or queen of the douchebags had pinched it. Pinched, by the way, is Tara's word. Not mine.
If you think spending a Saturday in your hometown Hard Rock is embarrassing, try being interviewed by the Hard Rock Cafe security team. Phone calls to banks, credit cards, parents and landlords later, we picked up Tara's spare set of car keys and headed to supperclub.
supperclub, for those of you who like me, haven't had the pleasure, is a high-end restaurant/club/lounge where you lie on beds as costumed servers bring you course after course of fabulous food, peppered with performance art and a hip hop trapeze artist. A gentleman in women's panties and roller skates brought us duck on a bed of mashed potatoes, chard and jus while a dragqueen named Jem poured wine and water over her plastic, inflatable guitar. All laying in bed, the crowd was filled with bachelorette parties and birthdays as well a few couples who were experiencing what looked like a very unexpected date.
I was trying to figure out if my parents would enjoy this. They're always asking things like, "Now, where is someplace hip and nice we could take the Smith's to dinner?"
By hip and nice, they mean bacar. But hey, supperclub doesn't use capital letters either and I'd love to see some tranny place my father's bed number on his lapel, part of the standard supperclub check-in. I think supperclub is more the kind of place my mother and her girlfriends might enjoy, remarking to each other, "Well, isn't this a trip!"
I had a marvelous time, snuggled on a slightly homosexual public bed with my friends, sipping my Pelligrino from a wine glass and wondering what was going on underneath Jem's undies. As our day caught up with us and it was time to head home and watch movies on Mel's couch, I decided to let go of my Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt collection and begin my "Diversity goes both ways" ensemble...

1 comment:

amy.leblanc said...

awesome SF writing here. sometimes i'm the yuppie at the farmer's market, sometimes i'm the freak serving you at supperclub. i like to go both ways.