Deck the balls

It's over! Finally! The holiday party season is kaput. I didn't think I'd make it all the way, but I did. Last night was the last one: The Tricycle Records Holiday Bash at the Rickshaw. About 99 percent of the attendees wore all black. Plus they all had black hair and drank black beer (Guinness), and the name of one of the bands was even The Blacks! Crazy.

But not as crazy as the Odopod Holiday Party. We're talking Stallion Massage Zone crazy! Here's a pic of me (Santa) and Stallion righter after we discussed Swedish vs. Shiatsu. Can't remember which won out.


The whole idea was that Stallion's Massage Zone would be so terrifying (you had to take off ALL your clothes for him to perform his "magic") that no one would dare take part. Even with the striking leather vest and the new age background music, some people still were brave -- or drunk -- enough to give it a try. Here's Yuri, who I believe was more drunk than brave.


Go back a couple more days and you've got the Hut Holiday party, which featured a serious heavy metal cover band playing. How serious? They kept yelling, "If the management will let us play more, we will!" The management, naturally, ran and hid, so they couldn't be asked if it was okay. I tried to get into the spirit of the night, right down to the old-school Pats hat Tim gave me.


And then there was the Rickshaw's official holiday dance party w/ me and Alan DJing the French pop (well, Alan DJed a lot of things, only some of which were French pop) and the Devil-ettes dancing around. I don't have any photos because I was, um, busy. You know, working and stuff. And then at the end of the night I got that crazy propostion. Crazy! As soon as I heard it, I thought, "I love this town!"

Here's a holiday Grumpy Guy for you. See you in the new year.

Happy Hollandaise

So we had our Rickshaw Holiday party last week. It was your typical office party. We all stood around the water cooler, which had been dosed with acid, hoping that our regional manager would take a few sips, while the lousy portable CD player spat out "Do They Know It's Christmas" over and over. Eventually, Hugo threw up in the trash can, and Sally went home with the date rapist from accounting.

No, wait, that must've been a bad dream. We actually all got driven around town in Rickshaw pedi-cabs!


You can't see it, but we're tossing donuts while cruising Market Street here.


And then we went sailing under the Golden Gate Bridge. Magnolia tried to kill a seal with a whiskey bottle top, but luckily he outsmarted her.






Because no Rickshaw holiday party is complete without a few bruises, we headed off to Golden Gate Park for some archery. Now, you may be thinking, "How can you get bruises from shooting an arrow at a target?" Well, let's just say it's possible for those amongst us who are double jointed. Or something.


And then, as the sun was going down, we landed at Tommy's Mexican Joint, or whatever it's called, for more booze and vittles. Here Brett is rocking the shocker.


I'm not exactly sure how, but we all made it home alive. Cam and I sat in his living room for an hour before I could even find my way to my car. This year's party will be hard to top, for sure. Christopher may have to hire hot air balloons next year.

This nogtini's for you

The holiday party season continues! On Wednesday night I went with Paul to the Yelp bash at Yerba Buena. Since Paul's girlfriend was performing as part of a hula hoop troupe, I was able to avoid the enormously long line by grabbing their boombox and slipping in with them. Smooth, I know. I didn't even have to wear fuzzy boots or glitter (not that there's anything wrong with those).


Those ladies sure could do some amazing things with a hula hoop. That said, the other troupe of furry booted girls with raver balls looked like a Hollywood ad rep's version of Burners.

Anyhoo, inside there was top shelf booze and little nibbles of food from cool restaurants and a hip-hop dance troupe that did a lot of grinding to songs about pussy. And, um, an exhibit that had something to do with the Dalai Lama. Ah, San Francisco, city of dichotomies.

It's funny how sometimes I just can't get into the spirit of things. The DJ was playing decent Top 40 hits, the nogtinis were burning a hole in my throat, the cupcakes were meshing well with the meatballs, but I just couldn’t get THERE. Wed 2.0 is a good thing, and it was nice to catch a little taste of that over-the-top Internet energy. But something was missing.

Then he arrived.


He must've been a VP in Sales or maybe Head of Online Gaming Opportunities (is there such a job?), but he was obviously part of the company. Otherwise, why would you kill the dance floor by letting a guy play the guitar riffs to Nirvana, Black Sabbath, and Sade tunes over a DJ's beats? Or have him sing Journey choruses without even a smidge of irony? Unless it was performance art. Whatever it was, it made the night. Pushed it over into the realm of the sublimely idiotic. Genius.

Women and children first

Back in another lifetime, on another Internet site, we used to write Weekend Roundups every Monday. In honor of those more innocent times, here's my wrap up, a bit late and extended.

Friday: Had a boring date that I was 45 minutes late to. Stupid highway traffic -- can someone please explain how traffic jams work? You're on the bridge moving 5 MPH and then for no reason you're doing 40. Someone could get a Nobel Prize for figuring this out.

The bad date wasn't the woman's fault. Well, a little bit. She asked two questions in two hours, and even then she didn't seem too interested in the answers. Maybe she was hungover from the Van Halen concert the night before.

Anyway, then I went to see Continental's last show. There was free post-wedding beer and strange projections and lots of French air-conditioning. Oh yeah, and cool instrumental rock. RIP, Continental! I will still make sweet love to you.

Next, Paul, Brent, Marlo and I checked out the big disco party at Mezzanine. It was crazy packed, with maybe 72% of the people in costume -- either silly disco outfits or authentic outfits that were kind of silly. (It was a thin line, and I don't mean the kind you need a spoon for.) Escort -- an 18-person live disco band that I saw in Brooklyn this summer and is fronted by Ryan's sisters's boyfriend, a nerdy guy named Eugene -- was pretty dang awesome, even if the sound truly sucks there. But Paul and I agreed that disco doesn't really excite us, although I make an exception for Loose Joints' "Is It All Over My Face?"

Saturday! I started it off by getting a finger in the eye, which is still red and bloody looking, while playing basketball. Then I helped Cam and Kristin move into my old place, across from Karen and Thaddeus. Elka yelled at me a little, so it was just like old times. Ha ha. Oh, and it was really nice to see Ozzie again. What a great dog she is.


After dinner with Jake and Caroline at Bombay, I went to the NaNoWriMo Thank God It's Over Party. I had a way better time than Laura, who wrote about it on her blog, which you should read. Of course, it helped that I didn't get hit on by Bill, the scary septegenarian who got his head caught in a box at the party a couple years back. And I got several compliments on my two excerpts -- one about the difference between making out at 15 and 40, and the other inspired by the true story of a guy who mugged a family but only got wine and hugs.

When that shindig had cooled down, Chris and I headed off to Casa Lohnes for game night. I wish I had pics of Pants Off Guitar Hero, but you'll just have to imagine Tim and Matt rocking out with their boxers out. We also played Thumper, which I hadn't done since college. Naturally, the game devolved into crotch thrusting and boob clutching. Hilarious!

Let's see. Sunday, I saw Lust, Caution with Laura. That movie is probably 20-30 minutes too long, but it's still way better than critics have been saying. It helps to have a super hot girl trying to seduce Tony Leung, but also there's plenty of intrigue and tragic blah blah. I mean, you thought you lost your virginity under trying circumstances. Youch.

Then, last night Cam took me up to Petaluma for a brewery party (can't say which one, due to ABC nosiness). We rode a bus with 30 very excited, very poor 25-year-olds. Free booze! Free wieners! Free cheesecake! Free beer-infused chocolate mousse! Yes, add those things all together, and you get a bleery bus ride home. Half the kids were vomitatious, one girl made the kind of overture that must be super-embarrassing today, and then there was the guy from the Zeitgeist who yelled "I hate you all! Stay away from my bar!" at the end of the trip. Mmm, beer.