shoes, booze, and getting tired

Sunday, jan. 26, 2003   |   0 comments

It sort of feels like I did nothing this past week, but when I think back on it, I’ve actually been kind of bee-busy. I mean, I did spend all Friday night reading in bed (Emma again, haha, man that Jane Austin sure puts the meow in homeowner, pft, pft!), but other than that I’ve been out every night.

Monday I did, uh, I don’t know what I did on Monday, oh PUMPED IRON and TROTTED at the gym, so horribly unfun. But Tuesday, after months of failed plans and disagreeable schedules, I finally got to see the famous Leslie — she and I met up with Liz at Ponte Vecchio (hey that’s a Paul review!) and ate ourselves up some fine, hot-plate cooking. Then we went for sundaes at the Saint Francis, which closed down a few years ago when the OG owner retired, much to everyone’s blueness, but is open once again thanks to my fine-assed friend Levon who bought the business along with another Boogaloos alum. I had hot fudge AND marshmallow toppings … and I’m not talking about my sundae! Actually, yes I am. (I am.)

Wednesday I rocked it up as Waycross played Bottom of the Hill (Sunny’s other band, Knife and Fork, plays at the Red Devil Lounge next Wednesday, check it cuties). Liz’s ex-man Andy was there and he gave me some dingle-dangley attachments for my Sidekick (heretofore referred to as “SK,” which is apparently how the alarmingly extensive Sidekick community does it). I also managed to get surprise-drunk on three beers, leaving me with one of those ridiculous, lingering hangovers the next day, which really sucked because ….

… On Thursday, I got a flat tire. No dramatic blowout or anything, just I went out to the garage and noticed that my car was listing alarmingly over toward the passenger side. Wincing, because of course I was in a rush, late for an appointment with fox Amy to get a hair cut(e), I leaned slowly, reluctantly over and around to check things out and yes, the tire was flat, like Kate Hudson-flat, just sitting on the rim. I tried a can of fix-a-flat, but all the juice immediately bubbled out the five-inch split. By that time I was really, really late, so I called Amy ON MY SK then grabbed a cab. On Saturday I put on the spare, which involved a surprising amount of hard, pumping labor to get my spindly, barbie jack to lift my car, and I went and got TWO new tires (fancy Pirellis!) because it turns out there was a huge nail through the other, driver’s side tire even though it wasn’t flat, plus the tire guy actually laughed when he saw my tires because apparently they were over twenty years old. All in all it set me back about $160, which is a total “of course”/“irony loves company” thing because this is the week I officially decided to sell my car. All I’ve done so far is put a sign in the window, but even that makes me feel melancholy and carsick already.

Oh so Thursday night I went to the Lone Palm to see the debut of my friend Adam’s new show, Mythbusters (Discovery hasn’t officially picked it up yet, so watch it watch it watch it, it’s airing all this week and it’s funny and sciency, which I know makes you hot), and even though I had two drinks there and then a bloody mary later over at the Lexington, I never felt remotely under the influence and was totally hungunder the next morning. What is the deal with that? Three beers one night and suddenly I’m Crazany, three drinks the very next night and … nothing. I thought I was old enough to “know my limit,” but how can I know anything when it completely shifts from night to night?

Saturday I had a margarita with Jill and Marilyn (who’s in town from beantown, haha, “beantown”) during dinner at the new restaurant in my neighborhood, The Last Supper Club (get it?). Actually I chugged it down because I was choking on what I could only figure was nut dust from my currant, spinach, pine nut side thing. [Lot’s of joking about how little action a boy would have to be getting to acquire nut dust here.] And oh! There was the cutest, cutest old couple there! They were really, really old, with matching stoops and canes, and they got seated right in the window, in the midst of a sea of hipsters and rich people. All they ordered was dessert and coffee. And when they left it took about ten minutes for them to get to the door, and they kept stopping and talking to each other and laughing. They were so obviously still in love, it brought a tear to our eyes, I swear. Next we went back to the Lexington and I had another margarita, then we walked over to Amnesia. When we hesitated over the cover charge, the guy at the door asked us if we were there to hear the music, and when we said no, not really, he offered to let all three of us in for the price of one, which was very nice, and we swore that if we did, indeed, find ourselves listening to the music, we’d come right on out and pay the extra $10. And did we listen, actually bob our heads to the geektastic, beaty, spin-job DJ music? I’m not telling you or anybody! Anyway, I had a beer there, too. So three drinks total, but again I was totally sober. Whatever!

Today the three of us drove out to The Great Mall in Milpitas (I know, what? Where?) to check out the Fornarina sale, and holy flap, my god, it was insane! If you ever went to the Esprit outlet as a tweenager in the early 80s, then you know something of the dizzy, sweaty, delighted panic we felt when we found all the fabulasticgreat shoes marked down to $5, $8, or $20. If you weren’t lucky enough to grow up living near the Esprit outlet, then have you ever seen a dog try to get more than one tennis ball in its mouth? We were kind of like that. We couldn’t try the shoes on fast enough, we just ran around barefoot, hopping on one shoe after another and piling up the insane haul of winners under and around one of the two trying-on chairs in the place. Even though our boxes were tripping up the other customers, and even though we were there for well over an hour, the Fornarinaeers were very nice to us. “Are you from San Francisco?” one of them asked us, “because people from around here don’t get nearly as excited about these shoes.” Anyway, I wound up buying six pairs of shoes, SIX, which is so dumb and gross as I don’t even vaguely need more shoes, in fact, I need less shoes.

Do you want to buy a pair of three-inch candy red and tan pumps? How about a car? You want to buy a 1966 Ford Cortina? With two brand-new tires?