friday night in sf

I've just awakened from a thirteen-hour sleep. I'm back in Iowa City. Refreshed I'm going to blog about San Francisco in reverse order.

Friday night was uber hectic. At quarter to seven I waited for the other writers at the lobby of the hotel. Litquake 2008 opening night at 8pm. So we hopped on a train to Van Ness station and hurried to the Herbst Theater three blocks away.

Suckered: Writers Confess A Profound Lack of Judgment opened Litquake 2008. Eight writers -Neal Pollack, Cintra Wilson, April Sinclair, Robert Mailer Anderson, Will Durst, Amber Tamblyn, Adam Savage, Jonathan Ames- extemporaneously told (not read so it was challenging) their 'suckered' experiences. I love Wilson's confession that she supported herself way back in college by working in a dial-for-sex.

During the intermission, I left the theater and dashed to Mission and 6th Street where, Marcelina by poet Joel B. Tan and composer Dwayne Calizo, was opening Kularts Fall Season.

"Perfumed, barefoot with painted toenails, eyes blackened with kohl, big and beautiful, the conjurer, the Pantheon's Big Fabulous Queer Deity offers a feast of poetic incantations, karaoke songs, adobo & rice to the ghost of Marcelina Navarro, a young, expectant Pilipina tortured and buried alive for alleged infidelity by the female members of her Masonic lodge in the late 30's."

It was wrapping up when I got there. So Anthem, Joel and friends invited me to Little Joe's for dinner and drinks. After bottles of beer, book and theater deals were reached. I received a phone call from Lyka of Las Tres Estrellas Redux. He was driving to Castro with the gang. "I'll be there in 20 minutes," I told him.

I said goodbye to Anthem and ran to Powell station to take the train to Castro.

I walked a block from the Castro station to Badlands. I have been there every single night since I arrived in SF on Tuesday. "We are here in the exit near the dance floor." Lyka texted me. It was a bloggers' eyeball.

Jake (who I referred to as L'objet in my previous entry) spotted me. And then I saw Jezebel. I recognized him from the picture when he won the catwalk competition. Then Lyka, Mama O and Ekra. Kabaklaan pleasantries. I walked to the bar and got myself a strawberry cosmo.

In the middle of Estelle feat. Kanye West's American Boy, Jezebel popped a question. "Ano ba ang type mo?"

"It depends." I was not really in the mood to get laid.

Lyka began talking to me. But the music was too loud. We went to a part of the bar where it was relatively quiet. Lyka interrogated me. First about Iowa. So I told him a one-minute pre-recorded speech about this Midwestern city.

Then he confronted me with a truth. "Type mo si Jake." I wanted to be defensive by responding with a prolonged "HUWWAAAATTT?????" Was I so obvious? Did I melt like candlewax in Jake's presence? We were talking alright, but I remember it clearly (I emphasize clarity at this point because I only had two bottles of beer and sipped half of the cosmo) that I didn't make pa-tweetums.

"Yeah, but that was ten years ago." I didn't want to lie. But then again, I sounded defensive. I met Jake in 1998 when we had to be members of a guild to work in the film industry. He then became a fixture of my masturbatory fantasies. But it's over now. I guess. I must say he looked cuter now, despite the revelation that he is...reaching middle age.

We went back to the exit near the dance floor. Jake was dancing with an invisible partner. I walked to the bar again and got another strawberry cosmo.

Jezebel, Jake and I talked about non-important issues. The others were dancing or flirting, or both. Jake grabbed my hand and dragged me to the dancefloor. So I let my hair down and danced. A minute later Jezebel, Mama O and Lyka joined us. It was a crowded dancefloor. The light was beginning to brighten, an indication that party would be over in ten minutes. I excused myself and went to the bar for my third and final cosmo.

We repaired to Bagdad Cafe for after-party food. We had a feast. Jezebel, in food critic mode, took a spoonful of Mama O's French Onion Soup. "It tastes like Nissin's Ramen. With egg." Everybody laughed.

Lyka invited me to spend the morning at their place. We drove to 41st Street in the opposite part of SF if your point of origin happened to be Powell Street where my hotel was located.

"This looks so familiar." I remarked after seeing the living room. I think it's famous now for rainbow bloggers who have seen the catwalk competition on Lyka's blog.

Lyka offered me his room. I thanked him profusely for his generosity. He offered drinks. I took water and a shot of vodka.

"Sleep now, you still have work," I told Lyka. "I can manage."

Cut to the previous entry.