Remedy
I decided the other day that I can’t stay in exile forever. So, I called up Patrick earlier in the week to let him know that I was probably going to attend Remedy tonight at DNA Lounge. I also talked to Ernie, who volunteered to pick me up this evening in Menlo Park in exchange for my services as a designated driver. With that agreement in place, I grabbed my VIP passes and headed to San Francisco with him.
The music was absolutely phenomenal. JT Donaldson ripped it up right at the beginning, handing the decks back and forth to Lance Desardi. Lots of really cool people were there — including Ahmed the Funky Pharaoh, Theresa (a really nifty person I recently found out was a cyclist herself), my friends from San José, and a whole floor full of attractive people. At one point, I was on the other side of the floor and I turned my head to find Jay Allen, recently returned from Europe, and hanging out with the lovely and talented Cheyenne.
Mark Farina stomped a hole in reality, playing an absolutely mind-bashing set of the sweetest house tracks in his bag. The party kept on and on. The crowd danced hard until they flipped the lights on. It was a great set and a great party.
Ernie had disappeared about half-way through Farina’s set and when I wandered out to where the car was, Ernie had ditched me. So, I called his cell phone:
“Ernie, you motherfucker. It’s five o’clock in the morning and the Subaru is gone. So, what you need to do now is delete my fucking number from your phone and never ever fucking call me or talk to me again…”
SamTrans 292 headed up Potrero Hill and I caught it at 5:40, rode it to the airport, waited half an hour for the KX express, and got to my house at 7:40 in the morning. So much for my Saturday half-century.
Fuck you, Ernie, you bitch. You are not my friend. Friends do not ditch their friends 30 miles from home at 5 in the morning. Never show your face to me again.