Trophy hunting.

After several hours of traveling on a plane, a train and an automobile I found myself in the fog-shrouded part of San Francisco known as Inner Richmond. A friend of mine, originally from the Emerald City, has recently finished Nursing School; her sister is scheduled to fly down and meet us we are all driving back together with her belongings. It was shortly after midnight when we rendezvoused and I was thirsty, (the beer on my flight having long since worn off.) Fortunately, my friend lives walking distance to a number of bars, I chose the one with sexiest name: The Buckshot.

The place was packed, much like any dive bar on a Saturday night at midnight. I ordered a shot of Fernet and a pair of PBRs (hey, "when in Rome...") My friend and I found a little spot between the shuffleboard table and the skee ball machines, where we could indulge our curiosity and observe the crowd. Underneath the gaze of countless mounted hunting trophies (so many and so varied Linda D., herself, would drool at this collection,) we took note of the various cliques, each group of drunkards easily distinguished by the uniform attire they wore, whether it be of an athletic jock-like variety, urban gangsta', or bridge 'n' tunnel mini dresses with heels too high to gracefully strut in paired with obnoxiously monogrammed Coach bags (sorry, at that price point there are a lot more labels to choose from and not all of them are made in China.)

I suggested we migrate towards the dance floor for better viewing of the various weekend courtship and mating rituals occurring all around us. We wove through the boisterous mass and were able to find a pair of stools to perch upon and continued our analysis of the crowd. (And quite honestly, we were also checking out the boys.) Apparently I got caught checking out a tall, dark and handsome guy, with a great build and chiseled jaw line, his eyes locked on mine and immediately he came over and sat next to me on a vacant stool asking me what my name was (Gush!)

Beside my newly befriended hunk-of-a-friend, I was completely beside myself. I could scarcely believe he was talking to me! He kept reaching down to adjust his socks and every time he would press his leg closer to mine (Gush!) We shared more about each other, where we came from, he himself being from San Diego. He was surprised I was 31. I was surprised he was 22. (Cougar! I know.) He did preface our conversation with saying his girlfriend just left (Really? Was that some sort of invitation? I can never tell.) He kept asking me why I wasn't out on the floor dancing, I tried to play coy and mumbled something about wanting to wait until a song I really liked to come on before hitting the floor. So we kept talking, he told me he worked at a retail store downtown and that he's used to being around a lot of gay people because of it, all the while he kept getting closer, our arms touching, our shoulders touching. I couldn't have asked for a warmer welcome to SF (Gush!)

He finally went out onto the dance floor and a flock of girls surrounded him. My friend kept encouraging me to get out there and after a few songs, I went. He was happy to see me, but I made sure I maintained a distance from him, (I didn't want him to think I was making assumptions, but sometimes it's hard not too, especially when cheap beer is involved.) Before leaving, being obliged to meet up with some other friends, he made a point to say goodbye to me and I ended the night gushing and glowing.

-----

A few days later, while downtown looking for a sweater to ward off the ever-present San Francisco chill, I decided to do a little "drive-by" where my hunk-of-a-friend works and as I walked by, sure enough, there he was in all his glory. It took him a moment to register how he knew me, then he smiled and opened his arms to give me a hug (Gush!) He introduced me to a co-worker of his, a slight, coiffed and well manicured Asian boy, who graciously complimented me on my leather jacket (BR.)

"So did you have fun the other night?" My hunk-of-a-friend asked me, three times. (Isn't it true, when nervous, people tend to repeat themselves? Just sayin'...) He asked if I were going out again this weekend. I told him I'd like to, but wasn't sure, just playing it all by ear. I asked him if he ever goes out during the week. He suggested I take his number and maybe we could go out together sometime (Honestly, it was his idea, not mine!) So I entered his number into my phone and shot him a text and took my leave, after another tight hug, of course (Gush!)

Quite the souvenir to come home with, if you ask me (Gush!)

A bundle of birthday parties.

After my leisurely brunch last Sunday at Tilikum Place, I meandered over to Citizen to support a newly-made friend, who just recently joined the team at the cute, little, coffee and crêpe house. Later that afternoon, after catching up with friends, old and new, and consulted about the landscaping of their new patio, I made my way over to the Rob Roy where my first official birthday party, of several, took place.

I had three waves of guests arrive culminating into a count of over two dozen imbibers before the night's end, which came a bit early for me since I did have to work the next day. A few highlights from the party: seeing an old childhood friend, who also came to my Halloween party, 'Dark and Stormy,' last fall, aside from that, I hadn't seen her in nearly 10 years. She is now married and living on the Eastside and works as a librarian and has quite the quintessential suburban lifestyle, choosing to substitute pets for children. Another childhood friend I've known since 6th grade happened to be finished with Graduate school and in town and it's been years since we've seen each other as well. I find it so fascinating reuniting with people I knew half a lifetime ago and seeing how much the same we are, personality-wise, as adults as we were as adolescents, except now we can legally drink.

-------

That following Tuesday was the premier birthday fête, Ma vie en rose, at Bottlehouse. Upon climbing the stairs to their welcoming front porch, a row of sunflowers each in their own antique soda bottle welcomed me and propped in front of them was a slate-board sandwich sign that read: "Closed for a Private Event--Ma vie en rose." Yes, I was feeling quite special. Then I entered the place and on their floor to ceiling slate-board menu: "Happy Birthday Tino! Welcome to Ma vie en rose!" I was feeling very special indeed.

The evening began with hugs all around, given by some of the most good-looking and urbane denizens who grace the Emerald City and I have the privilege to call Friend. The late afternoon sun cast everything, inside and out, in a warm, golden glow and blessed us with a balmy evening that stayed both heady and supple long into the night.

And of course, there was wine; rosés and whites, both with bubbles, or not. Seemingly limitless amounts of liquid elegance in clear, crystal stemware, glassware of such quality that the finger subconsciously lingers around and caresses it when not pressed up to one's lips in indulgent prayer. Every few minutes, the chiming of glasses could be heard, almost like Swiss clockwork, as ever more friends arrived, all splendid, gorgeous, and all too eager to join us in our infectious hedonism.

The cheese, oh, the cheese! Ripe, pungent and oh, so tasty! (Thank you JP!) I found little need for the freshly baked bread, the olives or the almonds. The cheese was plenty enough to whet my palate. (Though I did sneak off to the garden more than once to pilfer a few nearly fermented raspberries to garnish my countless flutes of Crémant d'Alsace and Moscato D'Asti. Mmmm!)

And as requested, nearly all 40 of my darling guests wore pink in honor of the theme: Ma vie en rose. My one and thirty years of life, in pink. My friends, all know so well how to make me feel so special, so very special indeed.

-------

As the sun passes through the house of Cancer, every summer, it seems as if there is a profusion of birthdays that abound in such a relatively short season. Last Saturday, two former neighbors, but still close friends of mine, each had a birthday party on the same day. Curious that we all used to live in the same dwelling, but have since scattered to the winds, yet we still commune together and celebrate when occasions call.

Arriving embarrassingly late to a fragrant, homemade Italian dinner on First Hill, I could see my presence wasn't all that missed as the coquettish glances of the single ladies in attendance feasted upon a tall, dark, handsome and somewhat mysterious visitor, who was a college friend of our host. I immediately took to the vino and attempted to do my best to catch up with the ladies. Too soon, we ran out of Dionysus' blessings and I ran to the store to replenish our stock with two more bottles for the eight of us to partake in and to perhaps also pay homage to Eros, praying, this evening, no arrows went astray.

While at the store, I ran into the other birthday Cancerian, who was on an ice run. "Two kegs!" Need he say more? Whence, back at the dinner party, with yet another party on the horizon at Feierabend, a German pub in South Lake Union in less than an hour we efficiently coordinated the logistics of the evening. Half of us went to the Kegger, the other half to the bar in case guests did decide to show up on time at the other party. I was thankful, the attractive visitor came with us to the Kegger, affording my eyes the opportunity to take up their fill, having missed the earlier opportunity due to my tardiness to dinner. After a few obligatory red cups, (I brought a travel mug) the four of us snagged a cab and caught up with the rest of our crew at Feierabend (travel mug still in hand.) After a couple more "biers," another bottle of white wine (Riesling, for me, of course) and a round of Fernet, we were all primed to go dancing and ended up at the Lo_Fi, where the birthday girl and I engaged in Strippercising on the dance floor. No, I didn't wake up with any dollar bills in my unmentionables... I don't think? Too much Fernet, maybe? No, never.