Hey! Friday night was fun. The Pound is out in the middle of a foreign, Flint-y wasteland, with orange halogen-lit factories puffing smoke and perma-parked hippie van's broadcasting Paul Harvey.

Viva Photoshop's "album cover" filter!

I arrived pre-drunk on beer and s'mores, then I drank some EXTRA vodka things (Michael the Librarian was there, what a nice surprise, and he bought me a drink, which I DRANK.), so by the end of the show (Annabella looked good and sounded pretty much album-perfect, and the drummer from No Doubt seemed so happy to be up there, rolling with his heros, his blue lipstick, bottle-opener smile never faltered), I was the kind of drunk that needs hamburgering, so we did that, fries too, to the tune of my usual drunk conversational stylings. Me: "What's going to happen?!" Jill: "I don't know!"

Who's that drunk pill watching the whole show through her LCD screen?

When I finally got home, at 2:30?, I turned on the television, threw my clothes around my apartment, and fell asleep in that particular drunken way that's more like tripping over something, versus the usual gradual, drifting decline. Then, blink, morning was blaring in and the radio alarm Car Talking at my swollen head. (That show is just two solid hours of screaming HaHaHaHa, how did cars get so comedy?) I managed to shower and dress and toe it up to Tangerine reasonably on time for blunch with Liz, Leah, Jill, and Heidi. I had a weird and unnecessary potato latke topped with poached eggs topped with hollandaise sauce, with bacon, which made me feel like I was dying inside, also like I needed to be shopping at Crossroads, which Liz and I promptly did.

After about 45 minutes of tanktop buying, we raced to the Metreon for a tour of The Village, which is not so great, not even scary, but still sort of interesting. I can't help thinking, and I have thought about it, which is something at least ... I can't help thinking that if only the movie had focused on the Adrien Brody character, if they'd cropped the whole picture differently, it would have been a lot scarier and thinky. Anyway, Caroleen's popcorn was good.

Then we raced home (by way of an iced latte at The Dirty cafe for me, I was DYING by then, no sleeps!) for a quick outfit change, then Adrienne (happy birthday!) and I went out for steaks galore at Harris's with her parents. There was a man whose special job it was to pass around a four-leafed dish of baked potato garnishes! Then we raced to The Golden Gate Theater for some "Movin' Out," which was insane. Turns out it was about Vietnam? There was a scene with dry ice smoke and a huge, wheeling, skull-covered wedge squiring ten ghost-vets and one ghost-Vietnamese lady (the same dancer who played the hooker in an earlier scene, I'm almost positive). Also: a "back in the world" dance that involved a man in a leather harness, some reenacted junkie injections, and a tranny with a long, floating scarf. Movin' Out!

Waiting for the car in the parking lot afterward, a crazy street man, whom I spotted a half-block away based on his eye-trippingly hurky-jerky style, came up to me and point-point-pointed at the sweater I was holding. "I think he thought you were holding a puppet," Adrienne's father observed, and I think that was exactly right. "Why won't your sweater puppet dance with me?" his pointing finger seemed to ask. "I need some puppetting," point, point, "some heavy, heavy puppetting."

Then we raced to Adrienne's for birthday cake and milk, then I stumbled the three feet between our apartments home, and then I stuffed myself into bed for a hearty 10+ hours of sleep. And now I gear up for berry-picking and round-two of cake. Catch it!

Jill's Marshall stack.

Leah knows! Leah knows.

Amy, Seth, and Juliana, a holy trinity with beer.

Necking with Caroleen.
(Note: I airbrushed 2.5 acnes off me. Caroleen just looks like that naturally.)

(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)

(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)