Katy St. Clair weighs in on pee-pee, poo-poo, and the Casanova

Loyal Readers may be wondering just where this column was last week. Last week, Loyal Readers probably opened the paper and zoomed straight to the hooker ads in the back like they usually do. Then, after seeing no new prospects, they probably doubled back to look for Bouncer, the column that, unlike prostitution, is free and blows. Last week, Loyal Readers must have been stunned to see nothing there. They must've asked themselves, “Hmm, wonder if she kicked it?”

This fantasy was going through my head as I was in the throes of scooting the pre-kicked bucket around the floor with the force of my own vomit. In my haze, the Grim Reaper stood above me, arms crossed, finger tapping patiently on his robe, which was surprisingly made of Polarfleece. “It keeps the cold air out and the warm air in,” he said tiredly, with a slight roll of the eyes. He was impatient, and I was sick. Like, imagine the worst food poisoning you've ever had, and then add on a fever of 103. That and the fact that I had Madonna's “Cherish” going through my head in a continuous loop, and that I got sick while I was at one of my developmentally disabled clients' houses. I couldn't move, let alone drive, and had to stay there for two days and fend off requests for a rousing game of dominoes or a DVD screening of Are We There Yet? I heard the movie in the background as I lay on my side, and despite my misery and the Madonna soundtrack, I still managed to say out loud, to some stuffed animals, “Ice Cube: What the FUCK happened, homie?”

When I had recovered somewhat, it was finally time for another jaunt into the underworld of exciting S.F. nightlife, a proposition I was thrilled to undertake because it meant getting outside and interacting with human forms. I still didn't feel 100 percent, so drinking was out of the question, but I knew if I grabbed my best friend, Michelle, she would do enough for the two of us. We went to the Casanova on Valencia, her favorite bar, and probably my favorite bar, if I had to choose. It has all the elements of the Mission that are comely: a romantic, quirky, slightly Arabian interior; a mixed crowd of music geeks, neighborhoodies, and knock-down drunks; and interesting conversations that crop up when going outside for a smoke. The guy or gal who programs the jukebox no doubt considers it his or her li'l slice of creative expression, a lovelorn mix tape for the masses. It is an Amoeba-bin-digger's festival of obscure '60s rock, current small-label gems, and quality jazz. DJs also show up and do stuff.

The conversation on our lips was leaving me unsettled as we nestled into our seats on a sofa. Michelle had seen a posting for a class on Craigslist earlier that day that, shall we say, stirred her curiosity. It said, roughly, “Cooking With Urine in S.F.: Please, no jokes.” This is why I love her, because she too would see something like that and want to take the class. However, when she went back to get the info, it was no longer posted.

Despite my somewhat woozy stomach, I was open to an exploration of just what a class like this could entail.

“BYOP?” I offered.

“Natch,” she replied, and we giggled. Then our eyes met and we both pondered the same unspoken question: In the class, do you have to cook with everyone's urine, or just your own? Therein would lie the rub, methinks.

My own pee? OK, I'd try it. After all, let's go through the body's own natural food mill, starting with the boobies and moving down to the anus: milk, milk, lemonade, and 'round the corner you have fudge made right there on the premises.

At Mills College, where I went to school, there were many such occasions to drink my own urine or, more likely, fully enjoy my own menses. Consider, if you will, my classmates who eschewed tampons for their phallic shape, preferring instead to use all-natural sea sponges. These sponges would be boiled upon use, in what I assumed was a way of sanitizing them but soon found out, to my own horror, that it was actually the brewing of one very gnarly infusion that was to be ingested. It reminded me of a joke I heard in grade school, about the vampire who walks into a bar and orders a glass of hot water. Then he pulls out a used tampon and says, “I'm gonna have tea.”

A girl garage band was whacking away at its instruments over the sound system, and Michelle's Bloody Mary was looking less inviting to her. Our sofa was beginning to be overrun with college students back from school and preparing for a month and a half of serious drinking with old high school friends. It was time to ramp up the discussion of urine drinking.

“It has antioxidants in it,” snorted Michelle, who, while it was escaping her nicotine- and alcohol-wisped lips, could see the irony immediately. You see, we have never done anything because it's healthy. We have done it because it is fun. We also knew that if push came to shove, we love each other enough to drink the other's pee-pee. Heck, we already enjoy one another's holiday fudge each year.

We left several hours later, me dizzy with sleep deprivation, she dizzy with vodka. When I got home I peed for about five minutes straight; more than enough, I was sure, for a lemonade stand.

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