I know the feeling, ’cause I’ve felt it myself. And only the last-minute intervention of Don Flequillón avoided what might have been just as embarrassing as situation as the one we lived last night at Polly Esther’s …

So let me come clean. This happened not too long ago, yet a while back. It was a Thanksgiving night, which makes it worse. I had an itching (what a wonderful wordplay the english/spanish double entendre allows us here!) to go out and dance the night away at Popscene, like other great Thursday nights. Yet nobody seemed to be in the mood even after a pre-standing agreement that the trip would happen that night.

For a split second I realized that it wasn’t going to happen through the regular channels, so I made up a story. Something about a girl I was supposed to meet there in “date” fashion. It worked.

She didn’t exist, of course, but I had to play dumb all night, look at the door/entrance area here and there, and keep Pablo guessing who the mystery guest was going to be.

So it did have the desired effect: it made somebody who was only interested mildly in going out, accompany me that night.

The night was boring, actually. One the worst turn-outs at 330 Rich St., so I ended up feeling bad that I dragged both my ass and Pablo’s up there, when we could have been better hosts to our guests at home. As it turns out David left everybody in the living room and went to bed … now how did that get to happen?

Which brings us to last night. I’d really like to believe that we’re^H^H^H^H^HI’m at fault here for not calling to catch up/agree on a place to go out to. Leaving him out of the loop.

The whole thing could have been avoided.

But I truly did not feel like going out. Was just as happy to sleep at home in my bed rather than over at Union Street’s Swiss Chalet. Oh, well … such it life and its weird turn of events.

On a completely different dimension this does bring up something: is this how I’m going to think of my current friends down in the peninsula when I move up to SF at the end of the month?