All the Devil’s Parties: Saturday, July 24 2010

I started out my Saturday night walking down Polk in tears.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to get you a taxi?”
“No, it’s better this way.”

Every emotion is flushed out.  It’s messy and embarrassing, but it does the job (and leaves me with a headache).  Crying is magical…especially in public.

The best way to get over yourself and your emotions is to get on a bus.  So I got on a bus.

Spontaneous conversations, coincidental run ins, creepy eye contact.

More creepy eye contact.

I’m heading to meet my friend and go to a ‘super gay’ dance party at SF Underground.  The last time I went there it was a leather bondage extravaganza.  The time before that someone thought my hair was the most impressive thing ever and asked me for advice on how to deal with his boyfriend (he later stood me up at Schmidts, go figure).

I get off on 14th and walk slightly up hill.  I’m thirsty and stop at a liquor store for a bag of cheetoes and some beer.  Up another hill and I’m on my friend’s front stoop violating anti-open container laws.

“hey, is that a Beck’s?”
(I nod)
“is that German?”
(I nod)

My friend eventually shows up.  We go inside and pre-party with some orange flavored something in his kitchen, since they rent out their living room like most of us in this city.  I tell him Tommie Sunshine is dj-ing at LDL and he gets excited.  Our plans change.

We walk over to Triple Crown as it really is ‘less than a cigarette away’.  My bare legs aren’t even cold.  Entry is ten bucks, but it goes until 3am, which my friend says makes all the difference.

Chandeliers and disco balls.  Heather Small’s is belting “‘’cause you ride on time” and everyone is really getting down, or at least trying.  This is the kind of place you can flaunt something sexy or show up in some cutoffs and sneakers (like me). There’s a lot of plaid, heels, stripes, sequins…a hella mixed crowd.  It’s just full enough; no one is rubbing up against me and I don’t see (or smell) any sweat.  Only two people spill drinks in my area, and it’s from dancing, not being blackout drunk. No one needs to be pushed through the crowd to throw up.  There aren’t any roaming photographers.  The uni-sex bathrooms are smelly and I have to flush down someone else’s pee, but there is plenty of toilet paper.

A mad hatter offers me some coke.  A Swedish guy tells me I am ‘fucking beautiful’ and then walks away.  A strange kid dances behind me for a while until I realize and slowly escape, in a kind of bitchy way.  An old lady rocks out in the corner.  Tommie Sunshine keeps me moving and grooving, he also looks like Cousin It.

LDL is over.  I get a taxi to 7th and Harrison for House Work and hope I have some cash.  I do.  My friend happens to be at the door when I arrive. Everyone is waiting in line for the bathroom.  Down the stairs it’s a dark cave-meets-ship space with house pumping through the walls.  I dance and dance and dance.  I eventually go upstairs and find an art-filled living room.  People are sitting on couches.  The music is super varied.  No one is dancing. No one offers me coke. I feel weird and go back downstairs.

I tell my taxi driver my cross streets and he says ‘you mean Folsom and Folsom’.  I get confused, smile, and say ‘sure’.  He laughs.  He doesn’t need to ask if I’ve had a good night, he already knows.

Going out in San Francisco is kind of like getting on a bus in tears: it’s overwhelming, cathartic and can get messy, but you stick it out and enjoy every minute of it.  There is so much all the time and you never really know what you are going to get.  This city is as random as Los Angeles, as intense as New York, and as talented as Berlin, but just a fraction of the size.  You might find yourself walking miles in stilettos or jogging to your favorite club.  But whether it’s on the journey, at the club, or during the ride home, the people you met and the places you go are well worth the tears.