prev what I did on my Saturday night next
2001-12-17 | 10:46 a.m.

Had dinner at Scala's in the St. Francis Hotel with Duff's co-workers Saturday night. Nice, though nicer if we hadn't had to pay for our own meal. Austerity is all the rage in S.F. now so the company declined to have a holiday party. They had a tiny little thing at the office mid-week but more on the scale of someone's going-away party. Last year's party was corporate-wide with a nice catered dinner and a dance band. The year before, at City Hall, was even more elaborate; the one before more elaborate still. But this year, it was cheese nips and pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, so Duff's department decided to get together for dinner anyway, with everyone paying their own way. The department paid for drinks.

Duff's boss is a woman but all his co-workers in the lab are men, all of them unmarried with varying degrees of girlfriendship. For these work-related social events, the guys are all preoccupied with bringing a "date." This year, for example, when I complained that I didn't want to go, Duff exclaimed, "What? I am not going to be the only guy there without a date besides Ron!" This I find absurd, since everyone he works with knows we're together and that we have been together for years, so even if he showed up without me, who would imagine that he was not getting laid? It doesn't add up. Nor do I make for an enticing trophy on his arm.

What happens is, the guys end up bringing attractive women they are not actually dating, as if this reflects well on them. It's turned into a bizarre tradition that I don't really understand, with guys trying to impress the others by bringing women who are completely out of their league, or else desirable in some other, unattainable way. I don't believe that glamour rubs off on you if you're not getting any cush, but perhaps to other geeky men, there is some sort of perceived residual glow. I figure it's only slightly more impressive than sitting next to a pretty girl on the bus.

One of the guys, Ron, has worked in the lab for years. He's a bit of a curmudgeon, with a long ponytail, though to hear Duff tell it he gets plenty of action (which I take to mean he gets laid approximately 8-10 times per year, only by more than one woman). For the last three years or so Ron has arrived at the holiday party with a willowy blonde friend that he is not, in fact, sleeping with. Everyone knows that he is not sleeping with her, yet here they come, yet again, and people start to wonder. Maybe that is the desired effect after all---to keep 'em guessing. This year she wasn't available, so he didn't come.

Another fellow, Joey, one of the younger guys, showed up with a gorgeous young woman, Sonya, as glamorous and pretty as any Asian twentysomething you'll ever see in your life. There was a lot of ribbing going on that I wasn't privy to and Joey seemed flustered by it. Even Sonya joined in: "See, Asian guys do blush!" I was a little surprised about a third of the way through dinner to notice that she wore a diamond (or diamond-like) pendant in the shape of a Playboy bunny. But you know how fashion can be---it's common to see ordinary, unembarrassed people wearing T-shirts that say "porn star" and things like that. About two-thirds of the way through dinner, I noticed that she had a good bit of cleavage showing under her V-neck sweater. A thought crossed my mind, but then I squelched it. I like to assume that people are what they appear to be unless I'm told otherwise. I'd rather be gullible than irredeemably cynical.

When I had a chance I mentioned the pendant to Duff. He whispered back that Sonya wasn't Joey's girlfriend, but a friend who just happens to be a stripper. Not only had Joey revealed her occupation to all his co-workers, but he had also bragged to them about her recent breast augmentation surgery. Now what I want to know is, what about this makes Joey look good?

After dinner we were unable to find a suitable bar at which to have a parting drink in downtown San Francisco (who'd have thunk it?) and out of desperation, ended up in a brightly lit hotel sports bar. Duff's boss had gotten a little tipsy and started telling me about what an colossal asshole her father-in-law is, though her husband was sitting next to her the whole time listening. I thought he looked a little put out, but Duff said no, not at all. It's a funny position to be in as a listener, because you don't want to appear to be disputing her account, but neither do you wish to agree too forcefully, thereby insulting the parentage of this fellow you've just barely met.

Finally the two of us took our leave and headed down to a club where we met up with my friend Kalliope Rubin, up from L.A. for the weekend to see a friend's band perform. Kalliope is a folk singer herself and has achieved some success at it, which never ceases to amaze me, given that I have heard her sing. It's a very strange thing, really. Don't get me wrong---I love Kalliope dearly, I think the world of her, and I would do anything for her. I buy all her CDs, T-shirts, what have you. But I cannot fathom how she gets bookings. She is a talented writer, however, and I've always encouraged her to keep up with that.

We offered to give Kalliope a ride back to the corporate apartment she had borrowed for the evening, and sure enough, the car started acting up after a week of running fine. We've had it in the shop twice but they can't figure out what's wrong with it. Anyway, we did get her back to her place but as we started driving away, the car stalled and we couldn't get it restarted. We tried for over an hour, until it was 3 a.m. and we were falling asleep. We called Duff's roadside assistance number but they said they couldn't give us a tow until 9 a.m. We both had to pee, so I stood guard while Duff relieved himself in an ivy patch. We walked a little longer and Duff said, "Too bad there isn't one of those expensive public toilets around here," and just as he said it, we spotted one, so I used that. If you haven't seen one of these things, they're really something. They look quaint and retro, like the entrance to a subway station in Europe. You press a button and the door glides open. Inside there is a spacious bathroom, about the size of a large dressing room, with toilet and sink, well-lit, and seriously automated. On the door, there is a sign that warns, "Door opens automatically after 20 minutes." I had used one before but Duff hadn't, so he stepped inside with me. After I had used the toilet (Duff warned me not to sit on the wet toilet seat---DUH!) and started trying to encourage the sink sensor to let me wash my hands (the soap is included in the experience, a la a drive-through car wash), the recorded message explaining how to use the facility belatedly kicked in. Then the sink acquiesced and I washed my hands and waited while they were blown dry. I pushed the Exit button with my elbow and the voice cut off, at which Duff exclaimed "Hey!"---meaning he wanted to stay inside. I said, "You're dreaming," thinking he wanted to fool around. "I've already had sex in an outhouse."

"That's disgusting," he said. "I just wanted to listen to the rest of it."

To make a long story short, we haggled with a cab driver and finally got a ride home for $65. (Yes, it hurt, but he wanted $102.) The kids were still at my mother's so we managed to stay awake long enough to stain the sheets, then collapsed into exhaustion. The next day, I borrowed Diane's patriot wagon (again), and Duff took the ferry into the city to deal with the car. Naturally, when he tried it, it started right up and he was able to drive it all the way home.

In the past, the car has always failed when I was driving it, not Duff, so I was glad it happened when he was there this time. But it is a bad position to be in. We really need a new car. However, if he is really going into law school this year, it will be hard for us to make a payment. Duff says he doesn't want to buy a used car, and I'm not in a position to buy any car. We'll just have to figure something out.

So how was your weekend?

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