This is one of them weekend reports.

Though this one begins on Thursday.

Thursday Kasey boarded a plane in Oregon, hung out in the air for awhile, and then deboarded that same plane in California. Then we went to the Irish Bank and drank beer. Then we went to Canessa and drank wine. Then I met Christian Bök. I was expecting Christian Bök to have an umlaut suspended over his head. He did not. At Canessa we drank wine and looked at poets on paper and talked about the best way for a man to get a woman into bed if he is a poet. We compared the difficulty of forging a painting versus forging a Elizabethan sonnet. Then we took an expensive cab to Inner Mission bar and drank beer. We got talked at. We looked for Buuck's lost cell phone. We talked about The Faces and how they became The Small Faces. We found the cell phone. We walked four blocks up Shotwell and did not get shot. At the corner of 24th & Shotwell, four of us went East and three of us went to 1070 #2. Then three of us drank more beer and shot the shit. At midnight, one of us smartly went to bed while the last two drank whiskey till 2am. This was fun, very fun but not so fun at 7am the next morning. At 7am the next morning, one of us, the one that is writing this weekend report, stumbled to work and had to stare at a computer screen all day and almost died. Eventually clock out came around and it was time for poets to gather again. We got a car from a parking garage and one of us paid an exorbitant fee. We drove to a garden and drank white wine and two of us ate wheat and one of us did not. One of us ate eight chickens and five pounds of pureed beans. We talked about white wine, Kevin Killian plays, New Langton Arts, exhaustion, THE INTERNET, and other things. Something about the garden made these three very giggly and we giggled all the way to the De Young. We giggled in the cathedral on orange leather chairs. Then "K. Silem Mohammad" and "Christian Bök" performed poesy. Still no umlaut hovering above the head of the poet while he read sound poems. There was a Q&A and we lingered for awhile and did the Entirely Indecisive Poet Thing for awhile more and finally ended up at weird bar in the Sunset two doors down from the apartment of a pregnant woman. This pregnant woman is due to have a baby any day and it is very strange, very very strange. At the fireside we talked about poetry and gay bars and then we waited for the poet dinner to finish but the poet dinner down the street did not finish and we wanted to get out of the Sunset and get to a better bar so finally after more Indecisive Poet Behavior and giggling we were transported via Poet Vehicle and wonky tape deck to Inner Mission. Again. And there was a very large dog with a head as big as a cow's. We plopped ourselves down, one of us with a big dark beer, one with a light smaller beer and one of us with white wine. We talked of love and what makes a person good in bed. Whether you can tell if a person is good in bed before that person is in bed. We laughed and rubbed our eyes and asked others to blow in our eye to get a speck out. We laughed. We went home to sleep. After sleep two of us woke up in the same bed. The sun was out and hot again. One loved it, one not so much, but the two decided to go out together into the city and tour. One gallery was closed, one man banged his head against the wall, one man mumbled about cockroaches and God and said Excuse Me very loudly, one man gagged himself with a sunglasses case, and two drank beer at City Beer Store. These same two ate Mayan food. Another gallery was open then another sweaty bus ride, more beer. The two did not buy the wrist band that would have allowed them to drink Miller High Life All Night Long. They had other plans although they weren't sure what they were. The two did not get shot, they ate pizza, then three showed up with beer. More beer and vinyl and that ye olde Otis vs. Sam discussion. Eventually another showed up and two left. Which makes four. Rye and beer and a beer run and cigarettes and gefilteh fish and flarf and vinyl and wealth and leisure. Then one crashed and there were three. Then a phone book was used. Then a cabbie was missing and three went looking for it. Did not get shot. Goodbyes. The air hot and still and somehow in this writing the I and We disappeared.

Now I'm at work. Fog's back.