a real flair with excuses

I could probably stand to be a little less judgmental. But let me just say this and we'll mention no more about it: SP remarked to me that she felt much more at ease once she realized that nothing she could say or do would make a difference to our drama-prone friend. Normally, I take great comfort from such acknowledgement, from the realization that on some level I am insignificant and powerless. But that is usually when I am thinking about the daunting problems in this world. On the other hand, the idea that I have no impact on a friend's life- this makes me question the point of friendship altogether.

Anyway, enough of that whole headache. My pseudo-bro PG took me out for dinner on Friday night at a super swank French establishment. This was hilarious on some level because my GBF came along. He and I had already been to El Rio that night. JP was working on beer #4 when I arrived at El Rio. After a Grey Goose & Tonic on an empty stomach, I was feeling pretty festive myself. It should be noted, though, that hanging out with JP is by definition festive. As soon as I found him out back at El Rio, it was nothing but kisses and laughter with the brasilenos. Truth be told, I would have preferred to hang out there for another hour or two. By the time we arrived at the restaurant, JP was in rare form, but that did not prevent him from ordering a Kir Royale before dinner.

PG, the broseph and I have this deal- when any of us get promoted, get an impressive bonus, or have something big to celebrate, we take the others to an over-the-top dinner. Our inaugural dinner was actually back over five years ago, when we all lived on the east coast, at Tabla. Back then, we were so young that we treated these dinners with much gravity. We dressed up, we behaved, we tried to use the right silverware. It felt decadent.

It still feels decadent, but in a different way. Now I think it has somehow become more about the excess aspect of the experience. Luckily, in San Francisco, you can go to pretty fancy restaurants without carrying on with a fancy demeanor. There have been a few restaurants we've dined at where even JP restrained himself, but La Folie was not one of those places. Perhaps the highlight of dinner was talking with the guy who serves bread and scrapes crumbs off the table (incidentally, what exactly is such a person's title- busboy seems wrong) in Spanish. Why was that such a highlight? He told JP he does not like the Mission. Why does he not like The Mission, you ask? His words, not mine: too many Latinos.

This next weekend will be the first weekend in quite some time that I am not obligated to work on drudgery. This might be the first weekend of its kind in over a year. Of course, this means that there is much to clean up in the crack shack. It also means that I will begin the task of making amends. Really, I would love to write about how everyone has been awful to me, how I'm so misunderstood, but never mind the bollocks. I have pulled a disappearing act, on more than one level. Even amongst the people I have seen recently, I haven't really been there, if that makes any sense. So, I will see how many cracks are irreparable, and how many distances can be bridged with a bit less testy a temperament. Let's see how long that lasts.

p.s. I could be wrong, but it's quite possible that A N N A will be west-side tomorrow. Which would be cause for much celebration.