I did party harty this weekend. 17 hours worth or something - weddings, reunions, birthdays - friends gathering, different groups.

	Driving back up US highway 101 Friday day, fresh from the Madonna Inn.
	Rondeyvooed with Amy, here rifling through her bag, probably for her IPod - she was eager to play some Lil' Kim for me. Raunchy stuff!
	Later that evening, Amy gave me a hair clipping, cleaning up Cassidy's work.
	Amy and I hosted a small party at this old house Friday night.
	Somehow, as the party wound down, friend familiar houseguest Lulu realized what was always considered inedible grapefruit out front of the house is in fact Palmello. Here Eve and Lulu contemplate the sweet sour. I'm not spelling Palmello right.

After the party, still buzzing, I sat down at my computer and mused over this:

would a move to LA indulge my vanity? Engage sides of me that are more shallow, physical? Purity bothers me. It's possible to cite purity in adoration, but it's too often offered as proof of a sort of manifest destiny. So I think to myself, what - I'm going to stay in San Francisco, where I'm with my people?

At the Madonna Inn, waiting for check in at 10pm, I was flipping through a $47.95 coffee table book about the place. I saw pictures of the founders with several republican presidents and christian philanthropists. "They were Republicans?" I said to the staff, with some measure of incredulity.

The women behind the counter seemed nonplussed. Well, I don't know, the older one said. The younger one looked at me out of the corner of her eye and nodded, yeah, I think they leaned that way. I changed the subject. Later I felt bad; it may have been a worthwhile topic, but I broached it with some measure of shock. I am largely surrounded by people with small variations in their opinions about specific financial or social matters; they are almost entirely politically left in the United States. This homage to Liberace's sense of human potential was funded by the political right?

And so maybe Bay Area self-righteousness has rubbed off on me; I was shocked to see decadent human creativity springing from another end of the political spectrum.

During the party, I played the Pillow Book. I love that film - beautiful onscreen. Suddenly, standing in the doorway with sweet Amy, I saw the movie's lugubrious sextext onscreen and I snorted - I was a pretentious fuck.

This had to be the coldest party I've ever thrown - two or three doors open over the course of the evening, as smokers and the people that speak to them congregated outside. I counted myself a grillman, slow-browning sausages. Since I was wearing a tank top, I stood close to the grill with my arm over the open lid, warming my armpit.

The house and the outdoors equalized temperatures. My friends were sitting, huddled in corners, pulling their parkas or sweatshirts around their shoulders and leaning forward over themselves.

Friends-of-friends-of-friends I'd never seen before were standing close to the front door holding their coats in close. They looked more than cold, they looked tentative about joining in with so many strangers. I greeted them, and when they realized I live here, they gave me some feedback. "Well, it looks very cultural, you know. I looked through their eyes; a urban tribal mask, a large oil painting about technology, Bill Gates holding a cheeseburger, a double-decker typewriter. They were more specifically complimentary of the dining room - a deep shade of crimson chosen by Jane. Inside, the red surrounding an old Salvation Army dining table of "oriental" style resembles an alcove in a Chinese restaurant. Through my friends and packratting I've accumulated some taste. Leaving for Los Angeles would upend that, and maybe keep me from getting stale.