I’m sitting in the Oakland Airport, thoroughly wiped out from too much fun this weekend and wishing someone would throttle Anne Rice before she writes a fucking Christian Lestat book. Seriously.

I enjoyed riding the bus (so many characters!), wandering around the Haight on Friday, reminiscing about a time 11 years ago when I used to spend a great deal more time haunting the second-hand shops in this neighborhood. I dove into Buffalo Exchange on a nostalgic whim and came out with a vintage, peach-colored 1930s CAMP corset girdle with garters and a fanned lacing across the low back. $14. How crazy is that? That night, I had dinner at Kyoto with my very dear friends Livgren and her husband B, who drove up from Boulder Creek. After I drank a good amount of hot sake (it doesn’t count if you have it with sushi), I went to O’Reilly’s with The Grey Masquerade and had a martini and sidecar. I was feelin’ mighty fine, as this was the first alcohol I’ve had in a while. The Grey Masquerade says that I continued to speak quite eloquently, which I find very funny.

Saturday was equally delicious in every way. I met up with Ducklord and the completely charming Maul for a vegetarian lunch. We then walked to Borderlands, where Loren Rhoads and I enjoyed a well-attended reading and signing. I was thrilled to see my friends. I met many cool folk, including the very lovely Lilly part of the Paramentals. I read the first seven pages of “The Last Word,” and was horrified to realize I’d written the phrase “black abyss.” Straight from the Department of Redundancy Department. I never printed out that story, as I didn’t have a printer in France, so I couldn’t catch things like that. Let that be a lesson to you kids out there. It’s the only way to avoid embarrassing adjective leakage. Anyway, the Q&A afterward was a blast.

Several of us then went to Luna Park and debauched. It was the best.

Today, I had lunch with my brother and his wife, lamented the weirdness that is our family, and came to the airport where I sit, groaning and shaking my fist at Anne Rice. Dude, I don’t even want to know what’s happening on the Oscars. I want to be sober when The Frenchman comes home tonight from Miami.

Thanks to everyone who came to the reading, hung out, whatever. I so miss S.F.!