2004-10-31 - 1:24 p.m.

I hate getting old.

Once upon a time, I could drink. Not only could I drink, I loved to drink. For me, the perfect evening was a party with all my friends, a bottle or two of champagne, and a cute boy who always wondered what it would be like with another guy. I had more than a couple of nights just like that.

However, last night I went to a party and drank quite a bit of vodka. I had not drank quite a bit of anything except coffee or water in a very long time. This was at a fabulous costume party thrown by the sexiest of sexy beasts, J-Sto and J-Ho, at their fabulous Oakland apartment. Yours truly went as 80s icon Cyndi Lauper, in a puffy red skirt and a ripped up red shirt and fishnets on my legs and arms. I'm actually still wearing the arm fishnets. Thank God I had a designated driver, because I couldn't walk let alone drive by the end of the evening. And when I got home, I did something that I had never done before.

In the words of Terry pratchet: veni, vermini, vomui. I came. I got ratted. I threw up.

That's right, I puked. From alcohol. In all my years of drinking I have had one black out and one serious hangover, but I had never thrown up. I have held back the hair of a number of good friends and have certainly been thrown up on a couple of times, but I never had the pleasure myself.

Yeah, it ain't fun.

I am not, however, here to talk about this weekend, although I could tell you stories about a beautiful young woman's experience at a Rocky Horror viewing on Friday. I am here to talk about last weekend, and the wonderful time had by me and my sister.

First of all, a little background. Lolita is not my biological sister. I have one (possibly two) and I'm nowhere near as close to them as I am to her (in my defense, both my confirmed and probably sister are almost 20 years older than me). I met her my sophomore year of college at this little talent show thingie in our dorm or, to be more marketing-friendly, college house. Truth be told, I was trying to hit on the guy sitting next to her on the couch. It speaks volumes for Lolita that she proved far more interesting. I knew we were going to tight, because not only were we both Latino--and, let's face it, all Latinos are related--but her room number was 234, while mine was 423. It was totally a sign.

I watched my sister grow from a schoolgirl--a very innocent schoolgirl--with a penchant for gender-bending plays into the sultry Sanskritist she is today. Along the way, there were crazy parties (where I never threw up, dammit!), crazier boys, even crazier mutual friends, more Indian food than is probably eaten by the average Indian, lots of big hugs and kisses and pawing one another (we are Lesbian Incest Whores, as the audience on Springer would say), and, most of all, leading roles in the Penn production of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Because we hate musicals. And gender bending. And men in make-up. And being the center of attention. And saying things sincerely when we can just say the opposite ironically. We hate that.

For the record, I was the Sweet Transvestite himself, Dr. Frank N. Furter, and my little sister was Magenta. Of course, after the show RiffRaff (the wonderously wonderful NelaBella) and I went off and missed the veritable orgy had by the rest of the cast, where Rocky hooked up with Eddie and Magenta got herself some Brad Majors (ASSHOLE!!!). She actually went on to get herself plenty of Brad Majors (ASSHOLE!!!) for the next few years, before moving on to Zenith Nadir (who everyone, including me, has hooked up with) and The Stupid Hindi Fuckwad whose toxic energies I had to purge from my beloved sister with the healing power of brunch.

Because really, there is nothing more healing than brunch.

I had hoped that Lolita could meet NewTexan and I for brunch at La Note, but the CalTrain wasn't having it. Serendipitously, we wound up going to Cafe de la Paz, which is one of the most magically delicious places in Berkeley, and one that has yet to be discovered by too many people. Lolita and NewTexan has chilaquiles, while I had French toast that was smothered in this coconut sauce that, when mingled with maple syrup, produced The God Sauce.

Now, some people might think that after such a big meal, we would be set for the day. Such people have never met Latinos. Lolita and I realized that, if eating were an Olympic event, Latin America would be absolutely unstoppable (to show our tremendous evil, one of us, I won't say who, said, "It's Argentina in the lead, but wait, here comes Mexico, and ooooh, the Sudan is falling behind!"). After NewTexan left, we headed over to Gregoire, this little take-out place that serves gourmet French wonderfulness. I was told to have the potato puffs.

Or as we came to call them, The Puffs of Jesus. Let me tell ya, if they offered this stuff at communion instead of those chalky little discs, there would have been no Protestant reformation. I'm not sure what's in them, but I can discern, along with the potato, butter, salt, and heroin.
In our defense, we didn't eat the puffs until after we went to the computer lab (which is my real home) and checked e-mail, and our favorite blogs, and did a few online quizzes.

Then it was off to the Haight, which involved braving San Francisco traffic and finding parking, which should also be an Olympic sport. As Lolita pointed out in her diary, we had to deal with some motherfuckin' HILLS. If you have never driven in San Francisco and would like to practice, go to your local amusement park and ask permission to drive your car on the biggest, craziest rollercoaster available. While you're on the rollercoaster, hire people to stand at various points on this rollercoaster and either 1) run in front of you when it would be most inconvenient or 2) hold up stop signs at the points where gravity and momentum will exert maximum force on your vehicle. This will give you a good headstart on San Francisco driving, but you should remain aware that this does not take into account the fact that there will be other cars who will happily play chicken with you for a parking spot.

Now, for some people, this might have been a reason to stress. And by some people, I mean me. However, I had my sister with me, so what would have otherwise been a personal descent into a Space Mountain-inspired Hell was an occassion to giggle, shriek, quote movies, sing songs, speak in ridiculous Desi accents, and hyperbolize. That, you see is what sisters do best.

After some time spent dawdling around the Haight--dawdling, of course, included eating a three-cheese crepe--I had to take her back to the train station. I had to give her two big hugs and kisses before she left. I'd laughed more that day than I had in the past two weeks.

In her diary--http://home.earthlink.net/~dpizarro/--my sister thanked me for making her feel better about Stupid Hindi Fuckwad being a worthless prick and making her feel less than perfect. To do so was both a duty and a pleasure. But I have to thank her too, because since she came, I've felt really good. I needed a day spent laughing my ass off. I needed my sister, someone that I can hug once every five minutes and not feel weird about it (this is a Latino thing--we're very touchy feely and get antsy when we don't get enough physical contact). Since she visited, I've been happier. I've been happy, in the sense of feeling comfortable and confident. Because, after all, it's all about me.

So here's to my sister, wonder that she is. May the psychotic issues of fuckbat idiots never get her down again. And if they do, I'll be there.

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