I had originally wanted to post a long story about Saturday Night. It was going to be the Great San Francisco Essay. It was about party hopping throughout the city and mating rituals of the single and desperate. It had it all- more woe is me type stuff, bitterly nasty comments about high-society types who think that wearing what could only be described as a chain mail tube top is classy, and long excitations about what constitutes a real San Franciscan and whether a party is really "varied" because it has both really fit white people and really rich white people. It was, in short, the Moby Dick of essays. It also sucked. Alas.

Here, however, is a brief rewrite of part of it. The excerpt as it were (unfortunately, it's still shite):

At a birthday party near North Beach. Didn't know either people whose birthday party it was, but knew people who knew one of the birthday people. I'm out with Jimmy and Sammy. Jimmy had already paired off with someone, leaving me alone on one couch and Sammy had left me to do shots. I like Sammy. He talks a big game, but usually winds up with me on the couch bemoaning his fate.

So I go up to the bar where Sammy and another guy are. We do what most guys do in situations like this, what guys have done in time in memoriam- sat on the edge of the party, stare at all the women, and occasionally say something to one another just to show people that we actually knew someone there and aren't that pathetic of a loser. It's amazing how years later, life is still often like a high-school dance.

I decide to say screw it. I've done way too much standing at a bar making occasional comments to other guys just make me feel comfortable. In front of us is this cool, living room like set up with couches facing each other, a coffee table, and chairs off to one side. Someone had gotten up from a nice, comfy chair, leaving it not only free but conveniently located between two women on the left and two women to the right. Sometimes, I tell Sammy, you have to go the party, and sometimes you have to have the party go to you. I'm kind of Zen like that.

I sit down, almost stumbling into it. The blonde woman closest to me on the right immediately leans into me and starts jabbering away about the bus boy taking her wine. She thought I had come over because I saw her beckoning. I didn't. She's too drunk to notice I didn't. We start talking, or at least she does. It's one of those conversations where one person goes on a long, drunken roll about something and after realizing that they're lost in the nether-regions, all you can do is nod your head and try to get in whatever you can.

For some reason, she goes on a long rant about Martha Stewart. I quickly realize she's too drunk to notice any of my brilliant witticisms or understand my cognizant analysis that Martha's merely being the fall-guy because she's a much easier, less politically connected person than Ken Lay so I just sit back and listen. Drunk people can be really amusing sometimes. And I feel like a little game of Play With the Drunk Girl.

She then goes on about her fascination of Condeeleza Rice, I realize I'm stuck. She's going on and on, leaning in to me, and she's too drunk to stop and give me a chance to leave. She's also kind of a cute blonde with knee-length black boots. I love knee-length black boots. And the chair was really comfortable. But as she goes on and on, I also realize that through her drunkenness, she actually sounds kind of interesting. Or maybe it's just because she keeps on leaning into me and putting her hand on my shoulder, but either way, I realize there might be a bit more to her than I originally thought. She's a High School Psychiatrist, which makes anyone A-OK in my book and she makes an insightfully cynical comment about how Condeeleza uses her southern charm and womanly wiles to be the brains behind the Bush administration. She even knows that Rice is a huge Cleveland Browns fan. I like insightfully cynical comments. I like the fact she knows the inner-workings of our government. Hell, most people (of either sex) probably have no idea who Condeeleza Rice is let alone know who her favorite football team is.

Sammy comes to tell me where off to go. I'm kind of relieved, given the chance to finally free myself. But what now? Ask for her number? Just say goodbye? Part of me thinks I should ask for a number- after all, I spent half an hour listening to her yammering away. On the other hand, she also is pretty drunk and there's a really good chance she won't remember any of it (see spending half an hour yammering away to me). I get up to go. I decide to do nothing, chalk it up as an idle prop to occupy the time. As I do, she tells me that I should give her my number because she and her roommate throw a lot of big parties and she thinks I'd enjoy them. She tells me that Tom Ammiano goes to them and some other political bigwigs. I'm down. I like a good party. I also like her boots.

One problem. I don't have a business card or a pen. Now what am I going to do?

I go off to find a pen. I go to the bar looking for a pen, I go to friends looking for a pen, I go everywhere looking for a pen. No pen. I feel silly. Like the guy in college who finds that he's about to score but is out of condoms and is finding himself knocking on all of his roommates doors for theirs. Use your cellphone, Sammy tells me, you can add new numbers to your cell phone. It's easy.

Ahh, my cell-phone. My brand new cell-phone. My new baby. What a wonderful thing my new cell phone is turning out to be. I just enter in her name and phone number and I'm good to go. Except, as I am new to the whole cell-phone thing, I barely have any idea how to work my phone. I can barely make a phone call, let alone enter in a new number.

I go back to her. She makes her roommate grab someone's cell phone and enters in my digits, asking me what my name was again. I start to enter her number, asking her what her name was again. It's a long name and I have no idea how to really do this. Plus, Sammy, Jimmy and a few others are on their way out the door to go to another party. I do what I can. Her name is Christina or Christine or something like that, but in my haste, it's entered as something like Chptsgm. I get her number, though, which is all that matters. I'm not drinking and I should be able to figure out who Chptsgm was. So I close my phone and leave. I got someone's digits. Well how 'bout that?

(Here's where all the brilliant snarkiness would come in and lots of roasting of high society types with their perfect teeth and Dockers uniforms, there anexoric bony bodies and there "rode hard and put away wet" look would be. Just pretend it was brilliant).

Jimmy and I head home, cabbing it back to my neck of the woods. We get out for pizza and I decide to show off a bit. After all, Jimmy and Sammy got digits. Nobody saw me pulling some out. Plus, I thought Jimmy would get a kick out of how inept I still am at this whole cell-thing. As we get out of the cab and head for the pizza place, I look through my phone book, trying to find Chptmn or whatever I entered her as.

It's not there.

No Christine, No Christina, not even a Chris or Kris or Chptmn. I guess I forgot to save it. After all that work, after all that effort, the number is gone. Lost somewhere in the ether.

Stupid cell-phone. No number for me.