Perhaps you heard? Sunday, April 20 was both Easter (as I like to point out, a Jewish fairy tale about zombies celebrated with symbolically ritualized cannibalism. Fabulous) and also the highly unofficial holiday of 420, which for reasons no one knows celebrates marijuana.
I don’t really care one way or the other about either of them, in fact, I had forgotten this was Easter until Friday when I was trying to make reservations for brunch. My biggest complaint on Sunday was that the confluence of both meant that every idiot in town whose driving was impaired either by religious fervor or dope, or both, was in my way. There is an intersection where three streets cross and some buffoon attempting a left turn had some crisis of confidence and just gave up, sitting in the middle, blocking the rest of us. Maybe it was an art piece, there’s lots of those around here.
On the brighter side, the brunch was just charming and included an ice cream cone for dessert and I found a great couch for the New Orleans house.
Also blooming right now is my beautiful, beautiful cereus, so yay for spring and all that.
Back in San Francisco, the first order of business was brunch, of course, cause I’m all gay and stuff. We hooked up with our young friends, collectively known as The Children, at the ever fabulous Foreign Cinema. Drinks and coffee flowed, bacon and omelets were downed, a good time was had by all.
Of course there was a price to pay, isn’t there always? My stomach is reporting in with heartburn of a volcanic level and claims the bacon had uranium in it. Please tell me it is not actually possible to die of indigestion. I feel like if I breathed towards an open flame, we could all go up in a terrible blaze. Dammit.
To take my mind off grease-based misery, some houseboy booty.
Obviously a young man who sensibly avoids brunch overload. Dammit.
How mortifying that my drink of choice is a Cascade Ice Pink Grapefruit flavored sparkling water with an Alka Seltzer thrown in, cause I am a Wild Man. Just a regular panic, I tell ya. It’s sparkling! It’s grapefruit-y! It makes me burp! Sort of like a now, happenin’ Fresca.
|How did Max Veneziano get in here?
Speaking of surveys, I have decided to create The Brunch Project since going out to brunch seems to be the highpoint of my week (which also raises the question “Is it really ‘brunch’ if it lasts eight hours and includes three bars and two restaurants?’ To which I can only reply “Fuck yeah.”)
The Brunch Project will report back about these bacchanals with details on where we went, what we ate, which drinks were the tastiest, who was the cutest queers spotted and any police action involved. But impertinent monkeys that you are, I am sure mrpeenee readers will want more, so here’s the deal. You send me the questions you want us to include on the Project Report and I’ll be sure to use them in the survey which brunch participants will be asked to complete.