FOMO NO MO’ (How to Cope with a Fear Of Missing Out)

So the strep and its zombie cousin stole 4 weeks of my summer.

I MISSED PRIDE.

I had some serious FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) anxiety that could only be staunched with coping strategies of questionable healthiness. Please benefit from my guide and learn how to conquer your FOMO.

FOMO Coping Strategy #1 — Disparage their fun!

Nope to the festival, I’m not going to pay to let people hock their merch at me, even if their merch has little plastic rainbow flags stuck in it. Last year I did get free stuff. Free TRASH stuff. The only thing I even wanted to see this year was the parade, but ew parking and ew getting up early and ew the sun.

Nightlife? Who wants to pay $20 for a block party that ends at 11?? And how much did Rich’s charge for cover? I heard Brass got up to $30. You know what, people said it wasn’t as fun as last year (even though it only was the most historical year of Pride in my life as an adult so far…) But like three people said it wasn’t as fun.

FOMO Coping Strategy #2 — Your alternate plans are so much cooler/mature/subversive

Yes, I had to stay in, and yes for my health I didn’t want to drink. But wine is just juice. I can have juice. I also invited over a couple of attractive people. Attractive people who recently went through antibiotic regimens like me! We covered the floor with records: Steely Dan, Roxy Music, Talking Heads, Undertones, Elvis Costello. Our tastes are so sophisticated. And we got all artistic with some body painting. And we went night swimming. (Because swimming in a pool at night when you are sniffling and coughing is sound decision-making. Thanks, wine juice.)

FOMO Coping Strategy #3 — Escapism

I’m not into minecraft anymore; I’ve just played too much of it and you can only put so many low resolution cubes in your castle before… Oh, heyyyyy there, Minecraft. On a new server. With my brother. You build the farm. I’m going to go chop some wood. Let’s put the mine shaft outside the main house instead of underneath it, this time. Holy what happened to 4 hours?

FOMO Coping Strategy #4 — That-fun-thing-you’re-missing actually would have killed you. Obviously.

We all know that the Zombie Strep is activated by heat and debauchery and I’m sooo glad not to spend a boatload of money to 1) get sunburned at the parade and 2) get drunk in a pit of attractive queer women who want to make out with me. Do you realize how many strains of new and exotic viruses are flying in from around the country, world even? No thank you, spawn of swine flu.

FOMO Coping Strategy #5 — You are going to have way more fun! IN THE FUTURE. It will just blow away all the fun you used to think was so important, haha, silly you

Other cities have pride, and on weekends that don’t coincide with the nastiest string of sicknesses I’ve had since I was too fever-delusional to watch anything with more emotional intensity than South Park. Palm Springs Pride, woo here I come! Palm trees! Warm weather! Drinking! Everything I would have got in San Diego but not in San Diego……..Oh, heck yes, Palm Springs night…life…?

Anyway.

How are y’all nerds coping with your SD Comic Con FOMO? I’m using my family reunion as an excuse to dip town, as well as strident self-affirmations that I don’t care about Comic Con because I suck at geekitude anyway and it’s not like all my friends are going (all my friends are going).

Unrelated Life Update

Hey you. I’m going to do Novel November. Exciting! By the end of that month, I’ll crank out a swanky first draft of a book I’ve been prepping since last year. I’m sort of anti-procrastinating by doing some of the legwork right now. Feels like I’m breaking the rules. I love breaking rules.

One of the most important steps to successful novel-ing is developing your “Elevator Speech,” which starts with an intro/summary that you can say in one breath. To some schmuck in an elevator. Who you found out is a publisher/agent/millionaire/popular-kid. And you need them to like you. And you have 1 minute of juicy trapped-together-in-elevator time. Go.

Through conversations with her father, a daughter discovers the ghost of her dead brother inside her childhood alter ego as an alien princess.

Maybe sort of interesting, ya? Let me clarify. I’m writing a book that is a true story. Nonfiction. About me.

Through conversations with my father, I discover the ghost of my dead brother inside my childhood alter ego as an alien princess.

So, it is really important that I get honest reactions to these scripts. Please respond privately in the box below, or with your real face on the facebooks.

← Back

Thank you for your response. ✨

Your reaction can be one word. Even if you just type “WTF?” into the box, it will give me some idea of how the world feels about my story. Be as critical as you want. I haven’t even started writing the book yet. Maybe I’ll write a book about belly button lint instead. Anything can happen at this point.

Thank y’all <3

Sick of Partying, Pt. 2

The z-pack should be called the zzz-pack. I can barely stay awake, and when I do manage, I’m confused and vaguely nauseous. (Or, currently, really nauseous.) I’m back on antibiotics, and the strong stuff, because I seem to have relapsed. The strep is back from the dead. Zombie strep.

Zombie strep is re-animated by heat and debauchery. I have the sun/rugburns to prove it.

Naturally, after two weeks of staying in and minding my health, I poured a little liquor on my wilting party monster. It scrapped up and bared a smile of disorganized, razor teeth. More? We drank Jameson that wasn’t Jameson (I’m a little concerned no one would tell me what it was in that bottle), lost a game of darts, avoided the hot tub (!), lost our white rabbit ears… Party monster started to feel alive again.

Then, after 1 hour of sleep, on Sunday, I co-hosted The World’s Worst Yard Sale. When the other host switched from Saturday, I knew we’d miss out on all of the churchgoer traffic. Since I dislike most churchgoers, I thought we might get a more interesting crowd. True, when we did have ‘customers’ they were ‘interesting.’ A woman who said she just got out of a 20-year coma grabbed a chair between us and told a slew of cow jokes:

What do you call a cow with no legs? Ground beef.
What do you call a cow with one leg? Steak.
What do you call a cow with two legs? Lean beef.
What do you call a cow with three legs? Tri-tip.
What do you call a cow who just gave birth? Decaffeinated.

There were more, but, as if she wanted to make up for a quarter-of-a-lifetime of silence, she spoke too quickly for me to catch them all. Her brother bought an Masaru Emoto book and they left.

Then we mostly sat, drank beer, and overheated. Beer helped. Beer helped a lot, but it did not make me invulnerable to the rage of the sun. No one, by the way, ever tells you to put sunscreen on your feet. They started burning first, and as the sun crept under the shade of the garage door, my sleep-deprived effort to slap on sunscreen revealed itself in red patches on the inside of my upper arms, weird lines on my thighs, and the tops of my knees. I crawled off with my 5 bucks (I think we made $20 all together) and slept in feverish discomfort. Literally feverish, probably, but I didn’t know to suck on a thermometer at this point.

When I woke up Monday morning with a sore throat, I opted to work from home. By 2:30 I signed off. (I started work at 11. I didn’t make it 4 hours.) I tried to ignore my building fear. I peered down my nose at the numbers growing on the digital display. First reading: 100.9. No. Not. This. Again.

Look guys, weathered wood. This could be an Etsy listing.

Desperate, I allowed a doctor’s appointment at 8:30am the next day even though that is an hour I meet only in the stupidest of circumstances, like a yard sale on a Sunday morning. Because I fear known enemies more than novel experiences, my inner hypochondriac started to bargain for something more exotic than strep. What if it’s Toxic Shock Syndrome? My sunburns became rashes, my next temperature reading confirmed I’d be up to a deadly fever in a few hours. 911, I need an ambulance, I’ll be in the pool trying to lower my temperature… It’s not like I really wanted this, but my fever brain likes to trip on weird scenarios to keep itself entertained.

I eventually maxed out at 101.5 but by then had given up on taking pictures.

But it’s the strep. It’s the goddamned strep all over again. I guess debauchery has its consequences.

Sick of Partying

I wish mac ‘n’ cheese had all the essential nutrients and vitamins, because it’s the only thing I’ve been able to eat since Monday. I’ve been coughing much, much longer than that, and had made a doctor’s appointment for Tuesday to see what rattled in my lungs. Monday my health rapidly plummeted from a disgusting yet livable cough to hellfire and a throat full of barbed wire. I measured my fever at 101.2 degrees Fahrenheit. This was after I’d taken a cold shower, convinced that my brain was boiling in my skull.

Fortuitously, my mom tele-worked on Tuesday, so she took a long lunch and drove me to the doctor’s. I’m pretty sure I would have killed myself and at least 2 other drivers if I’d tried to use a car that day.

The receptionist asked if I wanted to add my picture to the file; they had a camera right there and the doctors use the pictures to…. I made my face into a disgusted shape and she understood immediately that I don’t normally look like a 14 year old boy with hygiene problems and bad hair. “Not today.”

The doctor poked the flashlight-hammer thing into my facial orifices and asked me symptoms-questions, putting an emphasis on fatigue. I knew she wanted it to be mono. They always want us to have mono, because everyone who is young and promiscuous deserves mono. But she said my throat bumps or whatever medical term she used for them were so “red and beefy” that it could be strep. She darted two cotton swabs in my throat at the same time so she’d only have to gag me once. How kind.

“What if my girlfriend doesn’t get hers treated,” I planned to ask, “will she just pass it back to me when I’m done with my antibiotics?” This would be a white lie – my girlfriend seems to have skipped this round of contagion. I wouldn’t have been asking for her, not exactly. Although I can count on just one hand the number of women I made out with during last Saturday’s party, any number felt like too many to confess in that white interrogation room. How do you tell your doctor that you may be responsible for spreading a nasty disease with a Jameson fueled make-out binge? (Forgive me, for there was a dimly lit bounce house on premises.) But when the doctor popped back in and announced, “it’s strep,” she also told me she’d be giving me a shot and I forgot all my questions.

“I’m not going to lie to you, it’s going to be a bee sting. But you’ll feel better faster, and the swelling in your throat will hopefully have gone down enough by tomorrow to make it easier to swallow these horse pills I’m prescribing.” Welp. I numbly rubbed my shoulder. I felt my arm getting heavier, willing itself to die so it wouldn’t feel the pain. I practiced not clenching my muscles.

The nurse came back, told me the shot will actually be going in my butt. She didn’t say Gluteus Maximus, she said butt. A shot. In my butt.

“It would hurt too much if it went in your arm,” she explained, as if that would actually make me feel better. I think she noticed my eyes flaring and my head wobbling on my neck like a ship listing in the waves. “You can be lying down for this.” I started to think it wouldn’t be so terrible until she added, “I just need to get someone else to help me position the needle. The anatomy of the body changes when you’re lying down.” She told me to pull my pants down to my crack. I laid face-down on the table, waiting for them to return, sure that she sought a helper to pin me down so she could harpoon me with the syringe on the counter next to me. I felt like the albatross from the Rescuers Down Under, my shame exposed to the cheery nurse mice, who almost seemed to look forward to my suffering.

(Watch the first two minutes for a scene re-enactment.)

When the other nurse came in, there was no time to reason with them. They wiped me down with an icy square of disinfectant – higher up than I expected – and I think the shock of yet another surprise location and the idea of the needle potentially hitting my hip bone made me start to panic. “That’s not my butt?” I said into the pillow, and quickly they shot me, and I whimpered and freaked out. “Don’t touch it!” I gasped, because my nurse was grinding it in with her fingers. I started to cry a little. She pulled my pants up and rubbed through those, and started talking science to me, which calmed me down a bit. 1 minute of this, and she’s done, and she didn’t even stay to cuddle.

I think they gave me this purple dinosaur band-aid for being a big baby. Also note how it is very much not on my butt.

I stayed on the table for a little longer. (I had to wait in the room for 20 minutes to make sure I didn’t have an allergic reaction.) Once I overcame my feelings of degradation and self-pity, I moved to the chair and actually felt a little better after that adrenaline rush. My ass is still numb though.

Partying with “Old” People

“14 going on 40,” my dad called me, because I liked to think I could fare well in conversations with the adults. I did; until I got older and more conscious of my words and the gaps in my knowledge and experience. And, of course, I was a really delusional person from age 7 to age 21 – see last week’s post. Before the Christianity there was 7 years of alien princess nonsense that I’ll have to get into sometime… I’d say I’ve only been interacting directly with reality for the past two years. So, it is with great hesitation that I call someone a peer, especially if they have some years on me.

By that, I mean, I tend to assume people have their head together better than mine, and that I am totally out here to learn from them how to be a semi-functioning “normal” human being. I’m easily impressed by the folks who can figure out the difference between Ben Affleck and Tom Cruise and other famous white guys (seriously they all look the same to me how do you even keep track of what’s going on in this movie). I defer to people’s superior knowledge of pop culture and geekery and national news.

This makes me gullible, to a fault. Of course I’m going to take the word of someone I trust, even marginally, over my own perception of reality. 3 years ago I was so out of touch I was yanking the e-brake to stop my perfectly functioning car, thinking it wasn’t working because in my dreams I skidded on roads like a wet dog on soapy linoleum. You can tell me it’s a Tuesday on a Wednesday and I will believe you.

But I’m having to come to terms with the fact that older =/= wiser. People I call friends think homeopathy is a real thing. And they’re paying attention to when the moon shadow is in the Aquarius Capricorn Libra or something. I’m having to fine-tune my bullshit detector so I can both enjoy the variety and personal insight from the circus of people in my life and still, you know, not let the pseudo get all up in my science.

But, like, I’m young and I don’t know everything and some people really like to point that out.

Category 1 of Old People: Know-it-Alls

For the purposes of this section, anyone over 30 is an “Older Person” — not because I think 30 is old, but because 30 seems to be the magical number that makes people think they can dispense words of wisdom to me. I get it, I really do. I, for example, am a whole lot smarter than a 13 year old.

I would definitely sit down 13-year-old me and have a talk.

By the way, little Sami, you are not really an alien. But that’s fine, it’s not the craziest thing you’re going to believe in your life. Unless you stay out of the Church. STAY OUT OF THE CHURCH. Also, you should kiss as many boys as possible because that is going to suddenly get way less fun in a few years.

Normally I seldom think about how young or old my party-pals are, but occasionally they won’t let me avoid the topic. Yes, I know I’m only 23; I had to prove it to get into this club… I do often act in age-appropriate ways – binge-drinking, flirting, wearing garish clothing, running around in the woods, notching up and down the Kinsey scale, mooching off my parents… I’m not delusional that I’m responsible or something.

I’m spoiled, though. I’m used to the gayborhood; guys find out my age and squeal that I’m a baby and tell me I’m sexy. They know youth is fleeting and they’re still chasing it. In my hot-head I start to think Older People should treat my presence at their “potluck” as a favor. You should be so lucky I grace you with my energy and my anti-gravity lady-lumps. So, when someone gives me the “when I was your age” speech, I get a little cranky.

“When I was 23, darling, I was an idiot. You have so much to learn…” Some bearded 38-year-old goes on about the folly of youth. And he really said darling. In his defense, he says he uses all sorts of pet names with women all the time. Don’t really see how that is a defense and not a very real sign that he has unconscious chauvinistic tendencies…

“I try not to treat people like they’re typical.” Oh. Geez. Did I really just say that? I try to sit on my rage, but he calls me ‘sweetheart’ and I go inside, aggressive. A woman is about to talk about Masaru Emoto’s touchy-feely water crystals and the power of resonance. “Bullshit!” I interrupt her. She looks hurt. “Sorry, maybe you’re talking about something else. I didn’t mean to jump on you.”

“But you did.” Touché. She continues. Definitely Masaro Emoto. Okay, sorry I’m not sorry. I let her finish, then explain why frozen water crystals with emotional signatures are about as real as Big Foot. Oh dear, looks like she built half her spirituality around that paper she read… I try to be nice, say something about the power of human imagination, but I’m pretty sure when I leave that a lot of the stress in that room leaves with me.

Ah crap. I’m that stubborn young woman who doesn’t like to be told what to do with her life and doesn’t have respect for people’s personal beliefs.

Category 2: Everyone Else

Again, I normally don’t think about this. My friends are my friends, and I forget that I’m the young one until one of them points out that I look ‘especially teenage tonight.’ Yes this happens a lot.

But there are plenty of advantages to having “older” friends:

The wisest of them let me live my life while opening up theirs to me. I am addicted to people’s stories, and these people have more years of them.
They have zany clothes from years of thrift-store collecting and aren’t afraid to wear them. Fuzzy paisley hats and zebra stripes and big furry coats and tutus and corsets, the really nice ones.
Better taste in booze. They give me Horny Devil and Bullet and Laphroaig like they’re some kind of alcoholic evangelists. Obviously, I do not complain.
They are living proof that you can still have fun past your 20s. So. Much. Fun. Can’t keep up with all this fun.

Pocket Cheese – Or How the Party Lifestyle Affects Your Diet

Sometimes the party lifestyle seeps into your every day; the clothes you wear…or don’t wear, the things you talk about…or try not to talk about, and the food you eat…and avoid.

I’m talking about pinching pennies for your booze fund. Katelyn and I discovered the best caloric value for your buck is this macaroni and cheese pizza they sell at the Grocery Outlet for $1. It’s what it sounds like: mac’n’cheese on a freaking pizza. It tastes as amazing as you’re imagining. You bake it and…. well, I put ketchup on it. I like ketchup on my mac because I’m five. And you eat half one of those and get like 500 calories for 50 cents.

Right, so we get home at 4am congratulating ourselves for avoiding the mexican $7 burritos/nachos/food-binge of doom and instead split the $1 mac’n’pizza and we’re satiated with the gluttony of cheese. Yes.

The other thing that happens when you’re eating and you’re partying (eat-party-eat-party) is that you don’t have time. After getting off work at 7 and taking your pre-party nap and laboring over your costume, there is no time for food. You can’t chop a salad, you can’t toast a sandwich and juice a carrot. You have to eat on the go. So we have this thing called “Pocket Cheese.”

Pocket Cheese was originally a piece of cheese, individually wrapped, that you stick in your pocket on your way out the door to eat later. (Or maybe you think you have clean pockets and it’s not wrapped, but, whatever…) Pocket Cheese has its setbacks. Katelyn stashed a piece, all ready to go, and we went to the liquor store to get our plastic-bottle of Ancient Age whiskey, a bag of ice, and a 2 liter of Coke. She went to pay and the cheese fell out of her pocket, onto the floor and weirded out our fellow shoppers.

Nowadays, Pocket Cheese is anything you eat, on the go, before the party. “Katelyn I’m goin’ in the fridge I need some Pocket Cheese.” Well, can’t do this fish taco, too saucy and cabbage-y to manage in a pocket. I went for the grapes. Grapes are now Pocket Cheese. I had those for dinner, then also beer. Beer is food. My brother told me it has the 13 essential vitamins and minerals. He eats two meals a day and Beer Meal (3-5 beers or two 40s), and he’s fit enough to play Ultimate Frisbee.

Anyway, life is good when you got your priorities in order.

By the way, y’all should admire this gem. Let me know if you find anything equally amazing about San Diego:

Going to War (Potrero)

This will be a brief post, because I need to take today to get ready for Potrero War – my second time going. I’m not really a LARPer (Live Action Roleplay-er); I don’t even have my name figured out. I make the minimum effort possible – I wear a silk vest and pants from the thrift store, and it’s questionable whether my shoes are period. I camp with gypsies, and they don’t make me play those silly “war virgin” games (like wash people’s dishes) because my girlfriend and I are self-sufficient. Okay, my girlfriend is self-sufficient, I just make her do everything for me.

Still, I’m drawn to go to War. The premise is that we’re all gathering together to support the troops. They fight during the day; you can hear the clash of blunted swords on armor. Each fight could represent their last day on earth, so at night we party. Singing, dancing, and drinking. So much drinking. I will wander around the camps with my tankard and it will be filled with wines, homemade ales and grog, and Jim Beam.

If I had to make any conclusion, I’d just say nerds sure know how to have fun ;)

I’ll be with the Romani if you aim to find me!

Last Friday a Stripper Bit Me

This is not my guide to enjoying Pacers. My guide to enjoying Pacers would go something like this:

Figure out how to get in free or at a reduced rate, such as a friend with free passes or a web promotion.
Bring cigarettes, extra if you actually smoke the things.
Bring women friends if possible.
Buy 9-dollar domestic draft pitchers (Miller lite or Coors lite or some other crap beer).
Sit on the adorable enclosed patio in the back and leave your cigarettes out on the table.
Inevitably, a stripper will ask for a smoke. This is her break, so don’t start shoving dollars in her underwear. Instead enjoy her company and the atmosphere. If you’re lucky, enjoy watching her flirt with your girlfriend.
Don’t sit and stare near the stage unless you have cash to throw on it. That’s just rude.

Anyway.

So, I carry around a little brown notebook, call it “Life Odes” written in large letters on the front. The first page is a sketch of a “Juicy Fruit” shaped lip balm, which I colored highlighter yellow. A few pages in you’ll find a lipstick kiss (my own) and a bucket list. The first entry is checked off: “stripper bites my vagina.” I had emphatically created this page to break the news to my friends; I threw down the open notebook on the table and slid into the booth.

Backtrack: We’d gone to Pacers for a fetish night, which seemed to be a regular Pacers night supplemented by a few kinky ‘performances’ and several well-undressed patrons. That is to say, the only way I could tell some of the attendees from the strippers was to look for their purses. Staff swept up dollar bills with a push mop to make way for an awkward latex fashion show. The seemingly unrehearsed women fell onto the stage like cattle out of a gate, and milled around without choreography in the slightest. I needed a drink.

(Of course, Rubber Doll did much better than the latex models. Her acts this night included pulling pom-poms out of a slit in the front of her nude-colored latex one-piece, shooting silly string from a Madonna-esque bra, and blasting sparks off a two foot steel rod she gracefully strapped in front of her hips. It all sounds silly, but there’s something delightfully radical about a woman spraying a predominately male audience with silly string, sparks, and other substances.)

Back to that drink I needed. My friend offered his tab; apparently he knows the owner and the whole bill would be comped at the end of the night. I didn’t hesitate, and ordered a shot of Jame-o and a whiskey coke to start. “Oh, and a White Russian.” The generosity didn’t end there. After I finished my drinks, my friend offered to buy me a lap dance. Perhaps because I had a good free buzz on (let’s admit it, free buzzes feel better than paid-for buzzes) and because I like new experiences, I accepted.

Our stripper didn’t quite understand the arrangement. In an accent not unlike Katya Kazanova’s she explained, “I do him; I get him started for you.” Perhaps she thought we meant to go in together, which I assume is against the rules. “No,” I said in her ear, “I don’t care if he gets off. I want you and he has the money.” Or, at least, this is how I paraphrased myself when my friend asked me later how I got her to cooperate. “I don’t know what you doing, girl,” she replied, “but keep doing it.”

She ousted another pair from the 3-walled leather cubicle, which I felt weird about for about 5 seconds, and sat my friend across from us in the opposite booth. Normally I might object to letting a guy watch me get tantalized by a woman in her panties, even if he did pay for the dance, but I like this guy. He threw up thumbs and grinned at me when I peeked past her shoulders.

I assume she did the usual lap dance-y things but my brain just likes to remember that she nibbled on my crotch. Yes, at some point she bent down and chewed on me through my red pants. Somebody told me later that they don’t usually do that. Well I figured as much! This was after she made out with me, her tongue whirling like a windmill. The only other person to kiss me like that admitted to a history of sex work; do they teach this at the Academy*?

“Hey Katelyn, want a stripper kiss?”

The stripper didn’t quite finish exploding my mind, because some musical cue scared her to the stage. I sat close and watched her dance. “Don’t fall in love,” my friend said. I laughed, but threw all my dollar bills at her.

Epilogue

I want to say I enjoyed the performances, went home, and slept well. I can’t. We stayed after closing for what I’ll call “amateur-hour.” The ‘amateurs,’ a.k.a. my friends, got their chance to jump-up on the stage and fling themselves around the pole. The owner’s wife gave me an iPhone and told me to take pictures of her. Maybe I just felt artistic but I stood up on a chair and took 237. Also later I hit people. Also later we went to my friend’s suite at the Hard Rock Hotel and gabbed ’til 7:30am.

Outgoing text, 3:49AM: What is my life I don’t even.. Just after-partied at the titty bar. Made out with a stripper, beat a boy with a belt, tied a girl to an X and spanked her

When I flopped into bed – after we closed the door to our windowless bedroom and put a towel at its base to block out the light – I moaned to Katelyn, “we are such irresponsible, bad, bad children.” Yet the next night I slapped my thighs and chanted, “Party party party!” So we did.

*Poor attempt at Firefly reference. I am finally watching it for the first time!

For more tales of my debauchery, attend my performance at the Whistle Stop Bar, Thursday May 30th, as part of the showcase, “America’s F*&$% City,” hosted by So Say We All. Link to facebook event.

Dayglow San Diego 2013 (a.k.a. Life in Color)

Dayglow San Diego pissed off about 3,000* people last year who couldn’t get down to the over-packed floor, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised when it got re-branded as “Life in Color” this year with noticeably restricted ticket sales. I didn’t comprehend this at first. I walked in past a dude shouting “is anyone selling tickets,” I didn’t wait in line, and I walked in to what felt like a very empty ~~San Diego Sports Arena~~ Valley View Casino Center. I thought to myself, where is everyone?

I think they did right. Security felt relaxed throughout the night. I didn’t really get patted down; a tired-looking woman whisked her hands on my sides while avoiding eye contact. So much for the sticks of Stride I hid in my crotch (wasn’t sure if they’d be confiscating gum and I really wanted to have it, don’t judge me)… I heard about 30 people bum-rushed the event fences, so for awhile they checked tickets in and out of the smoking patio. Later, I helpfully asked a zoned-out yellow-shirter if he’d be checking my ticket. He laughed, said “yah” before ushering me through the door without even a glance. Ok, saucer-eyes, I guess not.

Or, maybe, you know, security didn’t spend a lot of time patting me down because I didn’t wear very much clothing. Picture stolen from Mel Marcelo, who photographs like 90% of the event pictures in this town.

Later I jumped up on my lesbro’s shoulders ~~for a better view of the stage~~ because I felt like being TALL. I made eye-contact with one of the guards. ‘Want me to get down?’ I mouthed. He shrugged and let me stay. Kids sat all over the floor, enjoying light shows and massage trains. At Beyond Wonderland last year they did not allow anything like this. It felt like being in a kindergarten where you’re allowed to eat the crayons. I got down from my perch and said, “I’m looking for people to adopt as my rave children.”

I enjoyed the relative emptiness of the venue. We saw the same faces, had space to burst around the halls, could find friends again we made an hour ago. A skinny, solo guy shook and jittered next to me. His eyes pointed in different directions. Overcome with empathy, I asked if he needed a hug, and squeezed him like I could make his pupils point forward again. Later I spotted him looking much happier, and much less cock-eyed.

Another picture by Mel Marcado. I wasn't too sure about my decision to wear braids until a girl ran up to me, touched them, and told me I looked "so cute, like an anime character."

Another picture by Mel Marcelo. I wasn’t too sure about my decision to wear braids until a girl ran up to me, touched them, and told me I looked “so cute, like an anime character.”

I had a major moment of skeptism when they unleashed the confetti. I hadn’t even made it down to the floor yet; I sat in the darkened stands at the far end. A cloud blasted into the paint smothered bodies below us. “Great,” Katelyn said, “Let’s make paper mache. Wow.” She insisted that it was paper, but the pieces fluttered like wings and shimmered like mylar. They floated upward (turns out it was the rising heat) and really did look like live butterflies. I imagined insect antennae and legs sticking to wet skin and grimaced. Yet the whole night all I saw was a single square of tissue paper stuck to Mel Marcelo’s clavicle — the only evidence that the thick sparkling swarm had ever existed.

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Visit this article for photos of a similar confetti cloud effect @ a paint party in Dallas last year – it’s a good read too.

*Ok, rough estimate. I had a difficult time tracking down actual numbers. Google Fu is weak today. I blame hangover. When do I ever not blame stuff on my hangovers?

Does Orange Juice Prevent Colds?

First off, let me just say that screwdrivers are my new favorite thing for Wednesday nights at Flick’s.

BUT orange juice is seldom on my menu. I think it sears my esophageal lining and allows germs to crawl inside me and make me unhappy. So, does OJ cause susceptibility to disease? I’m basing this unscientific study on two events:

This is the brass monkey that contributed to The Worst Cold Ever

This is the brass monkey that contributed to onset of The Worst Cold Ever.

One night of screwdrivers and brass monkeys preceded The Worst Cold Ever, in which I was bed-ridden for 8 days and sick an additional 2 weeks. I was so half-baked by fever that I cried after watching RuPaul’s drag race, “because I’m not a millionaire.” What? Any amount of real emotional content had me making wild connections between television shows and my personal problems. I had to switch to South Park. South Park never makes me cry.

Why did I wear an oversized fluffy zebra jacket? To match my zebra hat, of course.

Then this weekend at a burner party I realized I was possibly too drunk after I dropped my third plastic cup. (In my defense, I was wearing a giant fuzzy zebra jacket which made it surprisingly difficult to hold onto things.) I switched to plain OJ. Sure, I may have gotten sick off the swig of anise-chipotle-gasoline-flavored homemade vodka I took from a community flask. But it was probably a borderline-illegal proof so I don’t think bacteria could survive inside it. Nevertheless, I woke up with a sore throat that quickly progressed into a 3-day cold.

I’ve been living off gatorades and cheese-foods since Monday. Cheese comforts me. Katelyn, I said, I want something like chicken fingers or macaroni n’ cheese. Something little kids eat. “This?” She pulled out a microwave dinner that contained 1) Chicken strips, 2) Mac’n’cheese, 3) A chocolate muffin thing. Oh Banquet how I adore thee.

P.S. Does anyone else out there put ketchup on mac’n’cheese?

But at Flick’s my friends frequently order the screwdrivers and don’t contract the plague. I was sick of my shelfiest-shelf whiskey and cokes, and the vodka crans give me rot-gut. I know they’re using the same shoe-polish to alcoholize my OJ, but whatever orange sugar-water they top off the plastic cup with seems to prevent hangovers. I mean, yes, my insides are a disorganized sad place. But my headache went away before noon. Victory!

Results: inconclusive. Need to collect more data…

Help Me Party Harder

Sign this petition to allow a 4AM last call.

Only 980 signatures needed at the time of this writing. Thanks!

Reasons to sign:

Robert Dippell SAN FRANCISCO, CA
Bars closing later will allow people to leave at a staggered pace rather than all pour out at 2am on the dot. This is safer for bar patrons and less obnoxious for local residents.

Barry Synoground SAN FRANCISCO, CA
I want San Francisco and California to be international destinations with thriving late night culture.

Max Lion VACAVILLE, CA
I am a promoter for night life events, I really think that having a 4 am last call would put us on par with the rest of the world, attracting not only more local business, but more international interests in moving night life business into California.

John Peter SAN FRANCISCO, CA
2:00 closing is embarrassing for world-class cities like LA and SF. It reduces the amount of night-life fun people can have, and wastes a ton of potential business revenue.

San Diego Survival Guide

Sami navigates and examines being young, gay, and weird in San Diego. Updates (every other) Taco Tuesday. Now with more activism.

Category Archives: San Diego