Saturday and all that jazz

James and I planned to go to the Crossfit Games on Saturday. There were held somewhere south of San Jose and started at like 8:00 in the morning, so it was going to be a coffee-fueled commute to be sure.

As it turned out, we both had late nights Independence Day Friday and come the cold gray dawn of Saturday morning, neither of us wanted to be conscious or in a car. We deferred to an afternoon of quality time at the Fillmore Street Fair and Jazz Festival.

I had a wonderful breakfast with the G-Man and dropped him off in the Castro for his coffee and sojourn to meet his crew in Noe Valley, then made my way over to the Jamez. The fankle* was holding together for the most part, and we enjoyed the walk over to Fillmore and up the corridor.

The music, expectedly, was awesome, and so much better than usual street fair fare. Although some stages fell into the same trap of thinking that a high volume makes the music better.


It was a perfect day for the street fair, and I/we really needed our quality time to debrief, churn up, analyze, and get over all of our internal madness that had built up since the last time. As the event and the day were so perfect, it should have been no surprise that we ran into so many of our friends. We ran into most of the maidens and picked up Sheryl Dare for the rest of the day.


We also saw many of the characters from the night before, and at every turn seemed to re-encounter Kevin and Shawn.


Dietary restrictions fully flown out the window, we enjoyed that mainstay of SF street fair foods: stuff on sticks. I reveled in a corn dog, and managed to resist the funnel cake. Sheryl got some roasted corn, and astounded us with the level of OCD with which she approaches the cob.

She eats the corn a single kernel at a time, single row by single row.


All in all it was a good Saturday, culminating in Vietnamese Pha on Polk and a screening of Wall-E.

And I loves me some crazy, and the mish-mash of Lower Fillmore Jazz and Upper Fillmore Yuppie did not disappoint. Belonging to neither end of the spectrum, somewhere in the middle we bumped into this woman: crazy cat lady with airbrushed cat sweatshirt and cat face paint.


And to think she tried to avoid having her picture took.

Yesterday, James sent me a link to this flickr set, with the header "this will make you want to go next year" and the message "see what you missed?"

.

The women, I am assured, were also ripped.

Will sent me this video (quicktime movie, auto plays) of the women's clean and jerk finals. Intense. And I certainly know better than to make any sort of "women's clean and jerk" sexual puns to these women. They'd kick my ass.


*fankle=fucked-up ankle, originally coined to describe the Coco's post-surgery Frankenankle.