Yesterday was an orange day in San Francisco, a day worth putting responsibilities aside in order to get down there and be a part of it. Amongst fans who had cheered the Giants to their World Series victory in Monday night, fans who cheered the Giants through the post season, fans who had rallied the 2010 "misfits" team when they were playing to win, fans who chanted their names when they were playing like an "unbelievable" machine, fans who cheered our homeboys -- including a rookie named, of all names, Buster -- when they played like fools and lifelong fans who have been waiting for as long as they can remember to savor the sweetness of a 56-years-in-the-making world championship, I reveled in yesterday's parade and subsequent celebration knowing that the memory of it will bring smiles to faces in the city for a long time to come.

Donning a shirt I bought during the 2002 season (a #5 Tsuyoshi Shinjo shirt, the center fielder who hit the first Major League homer I ever witnessed in person at the then still new Giants ballpark and a player who went from "one to watch" to "hard to watch" in the span of just a few months) and hadn't worn or washed since game seven of that wretched "Rally Monkey" series, I headed out for the beginning of the parade route (four blocks from my Chinatown roost) to cheer everyone on our home team through the streets of the Financial District, only to make the journey across town to meet up with the frenzied masses again at parade's end in front of City Hall. Despite the fact that it was an unusually hot day in San Francisco, with hardly a breeze to speak of, my old Giants tee never felt so fresh or so clean (clean).

I just popped two Tylenol PM caplets a couple of minutes ago. I expect my ability to compose grammar will degrade rapidly… starting now.

The problem is that I have too much to tell you. I almost tripped over Lily Tomlin’s feet at the HBO after-party the night of the Emmy’s. (I’ve been told that these so-called “Emmy’s” are an award they give to people in the television business, but I wanna do some fact-checking on that before I present the data as true.) I also caught Glenn Close bopping her shoulders when the band began playing Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing”.

Why do you Earthlings go so ga-ga over that song?!


The boyfriend snagged us a chauffeured Audi. This fuggin' car had red, lit-up buttons on everything. Like, even the buttons had mini-buttons on them. I was intimidated. I don't like to think the car I'm riding in is smarter than me.

At a certain point we ended up in Anna Paquin's limo and headed over to the TV Guide party, just in time to miss Kanye West. I sent Kanye a box of Violet Crumbles to make up for it. It's his favorite candy bar. For Thanksgiving last year, he assembled the entire meal - turkey, stuffing, yams, Waldorf salad - using ONLY Violet Crumbles. It was an innovative and delicious meal and everyone who attended enjoyed themselves until we suffered diabetic shock and passed out drooling stomach bile.

Okay, some of that last paragraph is untrue.

Melissa Logan’s birthday party was two nights ago. I was there after a few rounds at The Advocate’s 40th anniversary party. William Baldwin was there, and I wasn’t sure if his standing across the room and paying no attention to me whatsoever was his idea of a come-on, but what else could it have been? The poor man just can’t come to grips with the fact that I am happily committed to Corey.

Normally, when I get off work at Amoeba Music on Friday evenings, I rush home, remove most clothing, scold my cat for not accomplishing anything while I was gone, fix myself a salad and watch some DVD (right now it’s the original “Twilight Zone”, season 3) before attending to any writing projects I have, after which I cuddle up with my iPod and listen to David Sedaris until I either fall asleep, or the Grays abduct me for a night of cavity-probing and “Small Wonder” re-runs (they love that show).


However, last Friday night I was abducted in a different way.

Logan had called me earlier and asked me what I was “doing” that night and I, like a fool, said I had no plans. (My boyfriend was in Canada at the Toronto Film Festival.)

“Well,” she said, sounding particularly devious, “You’re coming with me and Karen and some other Amoebites to see Hall & Oates at the Hollywood Bowl.”

She paused then, and I think she was waiting for me to squeal with delight. Instead, I quietly waited for a punchline to what was obviously a whimsical joke. When no punchline came and I realized she was telling the truth, I started to choke.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I think you gave me throat cancer,” I answered.

What had started as a moment of fantasy between a few co-workers had organically morphed into a large-scale field trip to the Hollywood Bowl. Karen had managed to secure a bevy of tickets and transportation. (I think she has mafia ties.)