Last weekend was a doozy. Mike was in LA to play a show so I filled up my schedule as much as possible. Turns out I was a bit too ambitious.
Friday: work from home, get some serious bangs cut, interview a local artist and restaurant owner for Haighteration. Get picked up by Beth, head to the Fillmore to see the Comedy Central special taping of a comedian who totally bombs and requests that the audience not tweet, blog, or talk about her performance. Excellent. On to Vanessa's birthday at Dear Mom, where a million friends have convened to drink and photobooth. Shut the place down.
Saturday: meet P+E for brunch at Maverick, delicious. Wander Valencia, get a beer at Zeitgeist, head to Dolores Park for Pride festivities. Spend the rest of the afternoon volunteering for Dyke March in several capacities: acting as a marshal/barricade mover for Dykes on Bikes, breaking down the organizer's area, picking up trash left by tens of thousands of drunkos. Wander to 16th and Market to check out the crazy street dance party scene, run into a group of friends, get pulled in for an evening of tacos, cuddling with ten other ladies in bed, and delirious chats.
This is where it gets weird: head home, read in bed until about 2 a.m., trying to ignore upstairs neighbors' increasingly loud fight. Very, very angry fight. Slam slam boom through the floor kind of fight. Lady neighbor getting louder and shriekier, finally starts absolutely screaming for help, for the police, for 911. It is not a sound I'll forget anytime soon - high pitched, desperate, horror movie-esque. I called the police right away, and they showed up in what seemed like only a minute, but lady neighbor had gone completely silent and I was sure she was dead. I answer the door to the cops with my new bangs sticking straight up, in my bathrobe, with my hands shaking from adrenaline and fear. Cops storm through my house (which smelled like butt, thanks to a fresh dook from Ezzie), out the back, and up the stairs with their weapons-grade flashlights drawn. Occasional thumps, mostly silence. I close the doors to the house that the police left open, still shaking. Call Mike a million times, leave plaintive messages. Call my mom, who per usual is amazing and soothing and talks about her garden until my hand stop shaking and I can get off the phone. Walk outside to catch the cop cars driving away. Run into the road to hail one. Me: Is everything ok? Cop: Situation is under control. Me: So no one is hurt? Cop: I wouldn't say that. Talk to Mike, get further soothed, go to bed.
Sunday: wake up, still exhausted from previous night's drama, still glad no one got killed. Interview a neighbor about their backyard for Haighteration. Hit up the farmer's market. Garden, garden, garden. Mike comes home, we head to Fly Bar for dinner, then Madrone for drinks. Home, revisit old epidodes of Firefly, helloandgoodnight.
I'm exhausted just writing about it.
Friday: work from home, get some serious bangs cut, interview a local artist and restaurant owner for Haighteration. Get picked up by Beth, head to the Fillmore to see the Comedy Central special taping of a comedian who totally bombs and requests that the audience not tweet, blog, or talk about her performance. Excellent. On to Vanessa's birthday at Dear Mom, where a million friends have convened to drink and photobooth. Shut the place down.
Sunday: wake up, still exhausted from previous night's drama, still glad no one got killed. Interview a neighbor about their backyard for Haighteration. Hit up the farmer's market. Garden, garden, garden. Mike comes home, we head to Fly Bar for dinner, then Madrone for drinks. Home, revisit old epidodes of Firefly, helloandgoodnight.
I'm exhausted just writing about it.
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