During my eleven-hour sleepfest, I had an elaborate Clay Aiken dream, where he and I were trying to find a party. We surmounted various obstacles using the power of teamwork, and I woke up a little disappointed that we hadn't made out in the dream. Because somehow, I find Clay Aiken-- geeky, freckled, and vaguely gay-- very attractive. I need an intervention. This is a cry for help.

Speaking of interventions, I had quite a weekend. I was doing okay with the drinking and the debauchery until Tim and I attempted to answer the age-old question: How wasted do you have to be in order for the movie Paycheck to make sense? (The answer is: The movie Paycheck will never make sense, but if you're wasted enough, you will no longer care.)

I feel bad writing about Tim's visit since I never had the chance to write about Bruce's visit-- you all I know I love them both equally, right? Although I'm a little torn, since Tim would not agree to buy matching signs in Chinatown that say "Friendship Street" thereby indicating that we live, symbolically, on Friendship Street. And now I don't know where we symbolically live. How am I supposed to deal with this level of confusion about our relationship? If only I had a cheap, mass-produced sign to explain it to me!

Anyway, I am constantly fighting against the urge to tell everyone how fabulous Tim is and how much I adore him, as giving in to this urge would no doubt embarrass him. But it's my online journal, so I just did it anyway. Ha! That'll teach him! To... yeah. Something. I'm tired and confused. Here, look at Clay Aiken again.

We ate a lot of really amazing food (we went to The Helmand for Afghani, among other things) stalked the last guy I dated, went to a festive barbecue, drank scotch and watched pirates, went to Shannon's comedy show, analyzed my feelings for the Boy of Inappropriate Age, who is now back in town, and tried to dull the pain of Ben Affleck movies, which as it turns out is a pain that cannot be dulled.

I took a few pictures, but left them at home. So instead, I will post pictures from when Bruce was here. Because that makes a lot of sense. Or not, but at least it's better than posting more pictures of Clay Aiken.

When Bruce was here we went to many places that I no longer remember, one of which was the zoo. The San Francisco Zoo is amusing in that they seem to have a policy of inserting a peacock into every exhibit. They have two geriatric elephants, one sad-looking polar bear, and no monkeys whatsoever-- but by god, they've got some peacocks.

When we were young and idealistic, we saw a peacock with all its feathers spread out and pretty, and we said "Ooh" and "Aah" and took pictures like everyone else. By the time we got to the giraffe exhibit and saw Peacock #5,792, we were over it.

And below is the picture where I thought I looked weird, and Bruce thought he looked fat. Roll your mouse over it and you'll see the photo we call "overcompensation."

We also went to Chez Panisse, which is "The" restaurant in this area. The meal was to die for, of course, and lived up to the legend. And we took more overcompensation photos! Our favorite was the one where Bruce is doing Blue Steel. (Again, the mouseover will give you the full effect. I'm really not sure what I was going for there, but clearly it didn't work out.)

And to think, I still haven't written about my trip to New York or my efforts to redefine the limits of acceptable home decor. I keep neglecting to write about my life in favor of having a life, and look where that has gotten me. In two days, I'm going to Vegas, and then I fear I will never catch up again.