Work hard and play hard

No pun intended.

No much to report during the week these days as it is nothing but nose to the grindstone, and I am almost out of nose.

Friday was our a corporate Staff Appreciation Day, and the office was scheduled to be closed after 10:30/11:00 for a day of many festivities in Golden Gate Park. Unfortunately Shilpa and I were buried not only in additional work that needed doing, but also a slew of new items which required response by the end of the day, so we did not get to flee the office in search of barbecue until after 2:00. The weather could not have been better—sunny and clear but cool—and it was a wonderful way to start winding down from a whirlwind of a week.


But it was by all means, one of those days. And by 10:30, I wanted a drink. Shortly after I muttered that to myself, I got an e-mail from Shilpa saying the same thing. I was on my first week of South Beach Phase I, which calls for no alcohol. And when it comes to drinking, I don’t want to be one of those people who drinks because they need a drink. I just want to drink because I want a drink.

But come ON. There is only so much one can take before they say F-it and go get a drink.

By the time we got to the park, we had missed most of the festivities but still got to visit with a lot of folks, and scrounge for no-carb food stuffs. I was going to meet the boys later and Shilps had an appointment in the Marina, so we killed some time together with sunshine and the sunroof. And sat on a deck and had a well-earned and well-deserved mandarin and soda. Ahhhhhhhh. I have been very good on this no-carb no-sugar thing, and even meeting friends for dinner and drinks all week, had abstained from alcoholic beverages. I have learned, as many others before me, that the South Beach diet is great, and easy to follow as long as you allow yourself exemptions on the weekends. I am trying to look at this diet as a lifestyle change, and not just something for the next couple of weeks. And that will only be possible if I allow for social drinking over the weekends.

And I have discovered the super-low carb chocolate ice cream bars from Weight Watchers, and the no-sugar-added fudgesicles. These are my saving graces. And I almost went nuts last night at Safeway when I found that they were out of both. Conspiracy!

After our cocktail I dropped Shilpa off at her appointment, and after a don’t-bother report from Barney headed home for a wardrobe change and some chill time. I was happy to be off from work and ready for the weekend. I stopped at Pitch for a visit (and possible trim) with Emmanuel and my new barber stylist. Good neighbor that I am I always offer cocktails. I brought a shaker of raspberry cosmos, and a carb-lite vodka soda for myself. It was a nice evening and I ended up getting a trim and a color tone at the end of the day. My stylist was excited to hear that there was country music and a gay rodeo in town, and asked to join me later at the 77 El Deora show.

I was excited about 77’s return from their euro tour and last time at the Knockout the crowd was pretty cool. Of course, last time their follow-up act flaked and never showed so they had to play for three or four hours, which was fine by me.

I invited SkotLand to join me after his family obligations, but those ran way late and he never made it. My stylist was waylaid as well so it was just me.

Again, the same guy they had been paired with before, totally flaked. He did not inform the owner/manager that he wouldn’t be playing, but one of his buddies showed up and said “X can’t make it tonight. But me and my buddies can go on instead…” Which to me sounded like a total bait and switch.

And not only were these guys total “I’m in a band, aren’t I hot” posers, they suuuuuuucked. Their music was crap, and very garage band/fraternity row jam-band wanna-be’s. Jeanine called them “Dead-inspired” before they fell into their dirge rock.

I really can’t convey their level of suckage. Enjoyed, it seemed, only by the friends/hos they brought with them. And their style of music was nowhere close to the Country Honky Tonk music on the marquee and previously advertised around town. It was the sort of music visibly drove people away at the door (certainly not worth the five bucks either) and annoyed the genre locals who had arrived in complete period 50s/rockabilly wardrobe and styling.

It was midnight before 77 took the newly-constructed stage, and even then the previous band left all of their instruments and enormous rotating woofer on the dance floor, which was only 15’ by 12’ as it was. There was little room for dancing, which sucked because 77 is great for dancing, and many often do. And they left their gear on the tables and chairs in the corner so there were no longer places to sit or rest drinks. One guy even came over to shoo someone (okay, me) from sitting on one of their cases, and later they were exasperated that people would rest their drinks on their crappy wooden cabinet they left against the wall. Seriously, they should have taken all their crap back to their cars when their set was done.

During the 77 El Deora set, I got to dance a little bit with Mau’s wife, the ever-lovely Jeanine. The woman can flat out dance, but she is so petite it is often difficult for me to dance with her (me being not so quite petite). Later, a blond girl named [redacted] asked me to dance. I accepted and then tried to dance with her, but either she was too drunk or too devoid of any rhythm/grace to dance along with me. We were couples dancing (just a basic swing) and she would routinely just fall, or stand there, or spin only halfway around, then just stand there as if she forgot where she was. It was extremely frustrating.

Then her girlfriend asked me to dance. (I didn’t initially know there were there together--and not together in the lesbian way, just girl friends girlfriends.)

She was also a train wreck. But I was a gentleman and just tried to be a strong lead and show her a good time.

They kept asking me to dance, and it just got worse and worse. I don’t know if it was the shoes or the blood-alcohol content but these girls could not move on a dance floor, tiny though it was. And I have a reputation to uphold when it comes to dancing and I was hoping the onlookers could tell that I was doing my best, and it was just Laverne and Shirley bringing me down.

After a few rounds, I graciously extricated myself and went to the bar. Moving from just soda to a mandarin-and, the blond sidled up to me again, put her hand on my chest and looked up to me: “Do you have a girlfriend?” She slightly slurred.

“No,” I said as sweetly as possible, “I’m gay,” my voice tinged with disappointment as if to say, “if only I weren’t…”.

“No, do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.” I tried to be clearer, “I have boyfriends” Not that I actually have boyfriends, but it’s not for lack of wanting.

I left her (I imagine) devastated. I accepted her compliments to my dancing, and politely declined to repeat the experience.

When they left the bar they were rebounding off one another on the sidewalk, and begging cigarettes. My only thoughts as they stumbled into the Outer Mission night were that I hoped (1) they would quiet down and not display themselves as such easy pickings for a sexual assault in this neighborhood, or (2) that they weren’t getting behind the wheel of a car. And (3) thank God they were gone.

When I got myself home, I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. And Saturday I welcomed the opportunity to sleep late and didn’t open my eyes again until after noon. Baby needed his rest as Jimbo and I were planning to join Shilpa and Amy Droptrou for the Red Hot & Black Gala and it was going to be another long night.