From my couch to...Crouch. In 39 steps!

This year I've decided to dedicate at least one night a week to attend a book reading or literary event. San Francisco is practically bursting at the hinge (analog humor--sorry) with them so I knew it wouldn't be a problem. The trouble, as usual, is me.

While most people know me (from Maui, anyway) to be a social butterfly and creature of the night, I've become more shy and retiring in my old(er) age. I no longer find fun in the notion of frequenting an overcrowded bar of urban 20-somethings, getting drunk on overpriced cocktails, and straining to hear whatever musical, literary or performance art schtick is happening on a too-small and awkwardly placed stage. Plus, I have nothing to wear. And my hair sucks. Also, I've heinously taken to calorie counting and it's seriously fking up my ability to imbibe or do anything, really.

But this desire to find a way to creatively satisfy myself is constantly nagging me. And, as Thespian sometimes points out, staying at home every night doesn't necessarily feed my writerly inspiration. So, after just a touch of kicking and screaming and gentle-Thespian-encouragement, I put some barely adequate clothes on, tamed my unruly locks somewhat, and got my complacent ass on the BART to San Francisco for "Writers With Drinks."

Still pouting, I decided to employ a practice I had inexplicably and long ago given up: note-taking. Hence, here's a numbered account (some say "list") of how my night went:

1. Thanks to Rob Brezsny, I'm thinking about the problem of my ego and what to do with it.

2. There's a man on the train who I can't take my eyes off of. He looks so tired. And sad. The deep wrinkles in his sweet face, his slouched posture and his profound aloneness are making me teary. I hope he has people waiting at home for him--people who love him and tell him he's great, who thank him for working so hard. I want to talk to him, give him a hug. Instead, I do nothing.

3. I get off BART and walk down the streets of the Mission District. It's drizzling and I like the way it makes my face feel fresh, amidst the grime--both material and humane.

4. I arrive at the Make-Out Room. The Smiths' "Hatful of Hollow" is playing. Loving the dark and dreamy, glitzy, melancholic prom decor. And it's fairly empty right now, making the people so far tolerable.

5. I'm practicing openness with strangers. By that I mean, I'm gonna try and be nice. (I offered to slide down so a standing couple from whom I snaked a seat could actually sit. For instance.)

6. Makers Mark on the rocks. 67 calories.

7. The lady next to me, early 30s, says to her dude: "I think it'd be cool to, like, have a house on a cliff." The man on my right, mid-40s, is checking Facebook.

8. I wish I hadn't been such a weirdo to Thespian before I left. I'm glad I apologized right away. But still.

9. There are lots of nerdy people here. Of course I like that.

10. I am jealous of the bartender's bangs. She looks like this (I have a sketch in my journal but this photo will do):

11. The under-bar lighting is perfect for discreetly writing judgmental and/or exploitative notes in your journal.

12. Gawddamn I love this album.

13. It's getting kind of crowded now. I miss having friends. You know, who live in the same town. And who I want to go out with. I miss wanting to go out. Or do I? Gawd I am such a pain in the ass...

14. I love Charlie Jane Anders.

15. Her rant on the booming real estate market in the Houses of Collective Hysteria (versus last year's Houses of Consciousness) is hilarious. Because it's true.

16. Must read more of Kirsten Amani Kasai's erotic poetry! So good.

17. Especially "Raspberries and Cream," which has since been changed to "I Hate You You Fucking Fuck." It's really quite pretty.

18. As Kasai readers her "sweetest" erotic poem, the oompah-boom of next door's Mexican dancehall music punctuates her emotions and crudely distracts from the overall headiness of the night's literary pursuits. THIS is San Francisco.

19. Skip Horack. I love Louisiana accents.

20. The modelesque, hipsterish young SF hottie standing next to me is obsessive/compulsively stroking her chin and putting her fingers in her mouth. It's simultaneously freaking me out and kind of comforting me. Just a little.

21. Benjamin Bac Sierra. Holyshit I met him at the San Francisco Bay Guardian Best Of party last year with Thespian. He was very nice. Now he is rocking a wifebeater and giving the most spirited account of life in the barrio. He's awesome. And loudly so.

22. "I will have no problem with the mic tonight!" He proclaims.

23. Dude is built, too. I'm skerred.

24. The model next to me is turned on. Possibly also disturbed. She is twirling her hair and swaying to Bac Sierra's machismo staccato.

25. Delivery is key. Passion matters.

26. Intermission. Model and her friend are drunkenly discussing relationship troubles. Also strangely comforting.

27. Charlie Jane Anders is back, dissecting the month of March and the year 2012. (By the way, her intros of each author are a show in and of themselves.) She hushes the room by telling us we're all failures--and also, fairy urine. Which is sparkly.

28. The voice of the woman on my left is becoming more shrill and annoying. How did I escape having that kind of voice?

29. Dude to my right, 50ish, is drinking like a fish. I think he's British. I already like him.

30. Charlie is touting bad sex in 2012. I secretly hope she's drunk. But I think not. Which, really, is more awesome.

31. M.K. Hobson. One of the two apparent headliners tonight. Paranormal novelist from Oregon. Could explain the earlier geekery presence. "The only way to be transgressive in Portland now (given "Portlandia") is to dress like you work at RE/MAX in Houston," she says, to laughs. "The problem is when you come to San Francisco..."

32. I'm less interested in fiction. But this is so wrong of me!
...Right?

33. Could be because of my second Makers on the rocks. 67 calories. No dinner.

34. Katie Crouch. Very cute, very charming Southern gal (especially after two Manhattans, she confesses). She reminds me of a young friend from the Midwest. She reads a passage narrated by a British character, although thankfully she doesn't attempt the accent. The man next to me seems pleased, which confirms my suspicions about his nationality.

35. I think deeply about offering to buy the man on my right a drink for guarding my seat while I visit the ladies' room but think against it as he might get the wrong idea. Now that I'm back I wish I had.

36. I am shy.

37. But also, he had stopped drinking and I didn't want to tempt him or make him push his limit. Anyway, I left and came back and all was well with the seat, without bribery.

38. Yep, still not too interested in fiction. But that was good. No, really.

39. Next: April 14.