How can they (American Idol) make the losers sing, or "perform one last time for their fans"? Huh? Whatever. I'm just waiting for 8:30 so I can watch The Office and then the last episode of The OC. Sort of.

Friday night was birthday night. We had dinner at Freemans, where I love my Dark and Stormies. There were presents—a receipt for the pre-ordered Harry Potter (and the Deathly Hallows), a gleaming Rabbit corkscrew, and a lot of stationery. There was a celebrity sighting—confirmed by Lo—of some dude from Gilmore Girls. If you like the birthday song, do not go to Freemans. No one at the restaurant joined in. Which was fine. I mean, I don't really give a shit about your birthday, either.

After Freemans we went across the street to the downstairs of Loreley. No DJ Friday night but the folks at Loreley will hook up your iPod with their speakers. Of course I didn't bring mine, but I did get to hear a little bit of Basement Jaxx from Mr. Leahy's iPod. Yes, Mr. Leahy, all the way from Princeton! Mrs Chou Chaffin provided the cake for the night, which, in the dim light of the lounge, I did not recognize as a RED VELVET CAKE WITH SEAFOAM GREEN FROSTING. And so, following last year's red velvet cake with seafoam green frosting provided by Mr. Schumann, a tradition has begun.

Twenty-two years over, and I look okay in flash photos. I guess I can't complain.

Restless leg?

What is restless leg syndrome? I don't want to Google it because I don't want to find out that it's not what I've got. Because I'm worried I've got something that no one else has. Haha, I know. But seriously. Today on my flight home I reclined my seat farther back than ever before. And with the little white pillow in its papery sham and some kitty yin yang hoodie padding, I was pretty comfy except for this problem I will call restless leg? for now. I explained this thing to Mr. Meinrath while in San Francisco, and there is a chance he used to have the same problem. Apparently he used to scrunch his toes a lot, which is one symptom of my restess leg?. It feels like a deep itch. You know about an itch under your jeans. Well, imagine an itch deep under your skin! Today it was my left foot, or maybe it is always my left foot. Since I can't drug my feet, I have to do something about it. So I scratch my left foot with my right foot and scrunch my toes and kick around and slip my feet out of my shoes, slip my feet back in my shoes, nothing helps. And trying not to think about it brings it back. Even now, I'm thinking about it and that feeling is creeping back. It's the worst.

I blog because I am jet-lagged. It is 9:09 AM in San Francisco. I am visiting college friends Mr. Holdahl and Mr. Meinrath at their Purple Palace. Miss Pritchett and Mr. Schumann have flewn up from LA to join us.

Friday night. A glass of Cabernet in Twin Peaks. Dinner at Foreign Cinema (2534 Mission St at 22nd Street) in the Mission. Beef tartare. Lamb mixer. Lavender crème brûlée. $80. $2 PBRs at dive bar 500 Club (500 Guerrero St at 17th St). Saturday. Hot pressed sandwiches and pastries from Tartine (600 Guerrero St at 18th St) in the Dolores Park. Barbecue at the Purple Palace. Beef, beef, and beef.

I recently thought who am I kidding I love meat. Before flights I worry I will get hungry so before takeoff I devoured an A&W cheeseburger. Wish I'd gotten fries or their cheese curds, but. A while later. "Chou?" And a flight attendant hands me my "STRICT VEGETARIAN" meal. I must have signed up for it on Continental.com at some point. So I eat a veggie burger of light brown and peas and a vegan cookie. Because I'm a strict vegetarian.

Sunday. Mr. Holdahl is watching a trailer of a documentary about Helvetica and making those little noises he makes. They sound something like, "MM."

I'm a chipster.

Read about blipsters.