And now for your gay merit badge. . .

I'm pretty damn delighted by my jetsetting ways these past two weeks. I've just returned from the red eye flight back east from SF. I can't seem to nap for some reason, both because I'm recognizing how much work I left for myself and because we had a weird flight that involved a quasi-emergency landing in Denver, which is not, I repeat, NOT RESTFUL.

Quick highlights:

1. Megarita and Hermano twirling and toasting their way through lovely Sonoma (where Megarita ably picked up a winery-based alternaboy), then praying to every saint and a few fictional ones on the drive home.
Meg: "I can't bear to take the 101 back to SF. It's too crowded!"
Hermano: "We can take the 1 back--that's scenic!"
(For those of you who have not seen the 1 near SF, it's very "scenic" in that "today is a good day to die" kind of way. Just imagine late afternoon near the Bay, the fog rolling in, and Megarita and her little brother attempting to negotiate the road's hairpin curves in the new Dodge Caliber. (It's totally a Neon.) I do not recommend this car, particularly the one we rented, because it now smells permanently of fear. There is no "road" where the 1 should be, just whispers of asphalt that haven't been sucked back into the Pacific, which is crashing against the cliffs hundreds of feet below. But yes, very scenic.)

2. Megarita and Hermano drinking margaritas on the roof deck of the Metro Bar in the Castro on Pink Saturday. Who remembered to wear her "fancy pants elitist" pink tee? Megarita did. Yay Megarita! Alas that Megarita followed up this drinky-fest with dinner and many more drinks with Claven that evening. I remember having fun, but also recall being confused about how I got in a cab, and wondering why the cabbie was scolding me for not knowing where my hotel was located.

3. Me being dragged from my hotel room by Hermano and his wee boyfriend (whom I called Juanito, Fernando, Bernadino, and other vaguely similar names over the course of the weekend) the morning after so that I could see the parade. Happy Pride, pass the sunglasses. I saw many naked boobs, a lot of penises, and swam through many clouds of pot. I did rally, however, and earned the respect of the Hermano's posse. This is the sort of behavior that has found me drinking beer in a creek bed in Indiana--gotta represent for the family. This will get me injured or worse someday, I can feel it. But I made through another one.

4. Me and Hermano cruising the Mission for excellent Mexican food, going to see Cars and declaring it "heartwarming," refusing to pay $20 for Titanic scraps at the Metreon, watching a totally fascinating documentary about gay hiphop, and deciding who had the more attractive eating disorder. (He won--the hermano is looking quite fine these days!)

Fantastic times with my people but the fog and the cold nights are not Meg-friendly. San Francisco remains on my "meh, but close to wine country" list.