Yes, my corner market is called "Food and Liquor World"; what of it?

[Memorial Day 'Aught-Five began Thursday night at the EQCA-Sordid Lives bene at the Metro. I knew it was going to be a strange evening when Allen, dressed as any of the working-class-Caucasian gents in any of S.L.'s bar scenes, insisted we get KFC for dinner to eat at Sean's before we left for the event. Any night that starts with a mixed bucket of original and extra-crispy is bound to be memorable, if only for heartburn.]

[Lessee...I gave out my number to a gent in his mid-40s and to a law student in his mid-20s. (Both donees called me the prescribed two days later. Working it, owning it.) Little Michael Fay, dressed at Delta Burke's character Nolita, won the costume contest. Donald invited me to dinner (see below). And if A tells B what happened between me and A after B left Martuni's for the evening, A-and-B will simply be A...and...B. Heh.]

[Friday: work, the Star Trek: Enterprise finale (shut up), and bed, if not right to sleep.]

[Saturday: work, and dinner at Allen's friend Donald's in Pacific Heights. Donald's this nice 50something man who is a Martuni's regular. (No, I haven't been hitting 'tuni's any more than my regular once-a-quarter; it's just how this weekend went.) We've known each other slightly for over a year, but I think he realized I was more than Allen's decorative friend (ahem) the night of the gala at City Hall. We were six at dinner, median age 40, and D. prepared an odd mix: shrimp and crab salad in hollowed-out avocadoes for an appetizer; his mamacita's chicken enchiladas (ai, Dios Mio); dilled halibut steaks, each the size of Texas; and fresh string beans, al dente and served cold with sesame and pepper flakes. Dessert was some combo of fresh berries, lemon curd, and whipped cream in a pastry shell. Of course it was.]

[No, Donald's no rail, and I will be even less so than I am if I'm invited to dinner with any regularity. After dinner (and the different alcoholic beverages served with each course; oh, I forgot the pink champagne served with the pâté-and-fig canapés passed upon arrival; yes, Max, there was a slight whiff of "care for a kaftan"), we rolled and staggered down the hill to the Marina District to ogle, tease and gawk at the straight people. (But never to their faces.) I was in the Marina several times a week last summer during Bar prep, and got used to it, but it was amusing to treat it that night as the anthropological expedition only six pixillated, middle-aged or almost gay men could make it. Full, drunk, and sick of it by Chestnut and Fillmore, Allen and I bussed it back downtown, he to his housesitting gig, me home.]

[Sunday: hibernate and digest. I was feeling down, so what better way to get those threatening tears to flow than to reread two guaranteed cathartics: Douglas Coupland's Oh Nostradamus! and Armistead Maupin's The Night Listener. I must have father-and-son issues on my mind (and not the kinky kind), because I got the shrieking cry-jag I guess I needed out of the way. Mostly, I just rested, though, hitting Food and Liquor World just once for provisions, and only taking one phone call.]

[(That phone call was from Jessica, who right about now should be finishing up her square at the I Madonnari festival at Mission Santa Barbara. She's doing a big one this year for the Natural History Museum. I can't wait to see the pics.)]

[Today, so far: warm and sunny, and I did a bit of walking around after finally finishing some laundry. (It was getting dire.) Also only one phone call of consequence so far; my friend, you're just what I needed.]

[Now what?]

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