Yen and I painted the town again. We went to see Transfer at The Casbah. Campaign for Quiet was the headliner, but for some reason, they went on first, and apparently we missed them. That makes no sense to me. But I didn't make a stink about it. I just felt sort of sad, because when Yen and I were later talking to Nate, it was apparent that he was very cute and therefore his band deserved to be watched. Or listened to, I suppose. A somewhat overly "familiar" fellow named Ray invited us to some after party, but we didn't go. He kept trying to plant kisses that were entirely unwanted and far too moist.
Okay, here's a little back story. When Yen and I went to the Ken Club last week, we happened to see Transfer, because this guy Steve, who we met that night, told us we should check them out, and we stuck around to hear them and found them to be awesome. So, we bought the CD, met the band, got invited to come back and check out the Casbah show, and Justin, the drummer, suggested I get in touch with him about playing some violin for them. And maybe I will, but this is not a moment filled with promises.
Fast forward to Friday, we ran into Justin and Matt from Transfer in the back game room. Someone said, "Mary," and I turned around and saw the two of them but wasn't really sure I knew them, and then it all came back to me, and I was a little embarrassed by how long it had taken me. So we said our how do you dos, and then Yen and I played Ms. Pac-Man for a while. Steve found us, as well, and seemed impressed that we showed up as we said we would. And I guess there's some room for that sort of feeling, as I was really very close to coming up with an excuse to not go out at all. My client meeting earlier in the day had gone much, much longer than I expected, and I was tired and drawn. But I know all too well how I end up feeling at midnight or so when I've decided I'm not up for a good time. I invariably realize I was plenty up for a good time. I just needed some time and a drink with ice in it to get into the groove.
We left The Casbah just barely in time for last call at Nunu's, where we were treated like princesses. Even by the hard-to-discourage Australian fellow who talked endlessly about golf, despite my initial admission that I know nothing about golf, and smelled as if he had just come from an onion buffet. Outside the bar after closing, I found myself having to be clever with a guy who had letters tattooed on his knuckles. I have noted that, by and large, boys are likely to have one of three styles when it comes to courtship and flirtation. (1) They try to impress you by showing you that they are awesome and that you are wrong about everything. (2) They antagonize and tease you about everything you say. (3) They listen with interest to what you have to say and offer discerning responses of their own. Number three is rarer than numbers one and two. It mostly happens with grown-ups who have a good amount of self-esteem and who are comfortable showing a woman respect and courtesy. Which means that most of the practitioners of this method lived in a time when men carried hankies and slapped each other with gloves. I have recently learned that this approach may be referred to as a "conversation." Anyway, he and his pals also invited us to carry on our evening at another location, and I allowed him to write his information in my little book before Yen and I went somewhere to eat. I didn't mean to be disingenuous in allowing them to infer that we would accept their invitation. I just felt like the polite thing to do was to eat a sandwich, so that's what I did. And it was wonderful.
I used my car's cigarette lighter to melt through the sealed edge of one of those Costco packages, because I decided I wanted some lotion for my legs, and once I set my mind to something...well, anyway, look out. So my car smelled a little funny for a while. But then not so much anymore. And I suddenly recall that, as I circled the block looking for parking before my sketch show, I saw a little person walk across the street. And when I say "little person," I mean midget. Which is precisely why I think the phrase "little person" is ineffective. It sounds too much like you might be talking about an eight year-old boy who likes to wear three-piece suits and a bowler hat. But the dude I saw was a midget. And he was wearing a smart little outfit and walking with some bounce in his step. Maybe he was headed to the flower stand to buy some plumage for his date. I'm sure she liked his plaid shirt. It looked crisp and neatly pressed. A midget dude in khakis crossed my path. Does that have any superstitious meaning?
I have a feeling this weekend will stretch on and on and on. It's been like stasis, being here in San Diego. It's been like a vacation or a prison sentence. Either way, you're not responsible for how little you got done.