On Friday:

I went out drinking with Mike Bruno, Tom Foster, and Catherine. We all got drunk, and that's all I'm saying about that.

We ended the night at 7B. As I entered the bathroom there, a man walked up to me, grabbed my arm, and mumbled something in my ear that sounded like, "Black woman." He then thrust three dollars at me.

"What?" I said.

"Play 'Black Magic Woman.'"

"What?" I yelled.

"Play 'Black Magic Woman' by Santana."

So, after I took a piss, I walked over to the jukebox, put in a dollar, played 'Black Magic Woman', used the other credit for a Descendents song, and then pocketed the other two dollars.

On Saturday:

Dante took me to a party, the attendees of which were mostly gay, with the exception of one het couple and a bunch of girls like me. All of the guys were hitting on Dante, and it made me feel slightly protective of him because I had never seen it happen before, until I realized if it were me, I'd be pretty psyched.

I met two men who looked like celebrities. One man was wearing a patchwork coat, a white button down shirt, and an ascot. He found a straw hat with a wide brim a few hours into the party, and when he put it on, it was as if his outfit had been waiting for that hat all night long.

It was irrelevant what his friend was wearing, because his celebrity resemblance had nothing to do with his clothes. There was just something about him, his voice, the point of his noise, and perhaps, maybe the style of his sunglasses, that reminded me of someone.

I met them earlier in the evening, and later, after a few martinis for inspiration, I walked up to them and said, "You know who you look like? Truman Capote." I said this to the guy with the hat. And, to the guy with the sunglasses, I said, "And you look like Hunter S. Thompson."

The guy who looked like Hunter S. Thompson said, "Screw Hunter S. Thompson. I want to look like Truman Capote!"

On Sunday:

I went to go get my eyebrows waxed for the first time in a month. I'm not a big fan of the experience because I find it very painful and occasionally humiliating, but it does make life so much easier. I've got no sense of balance whatsoever. I can't even hang pictures straight.

Because I've been out of town for a while and had been remiss about grooming, my esthetician chided me. She's in her late 40s, Asian, and her only obvious body hair are two thin strips of eyebrows, most of which I think are penciled in. Her place of business is located around the corner from apartment, and when she sees me on the street she never smiles or says hello. I think she hates me.

When she finished with me, she held out the strips of fabric she had used, and giggled.

"So much hair this time!" she said triumphantly.

I looked at the mass of hair she had extracted violently from my head, and smiled weakly. In the battle of her against my hair, she would always win.

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