Then went partywards, and got a little lost looking for House of Rebel Angels. Smiled at the nice people in the alley as I wandered past, toting vodka. Should probably get more precise directions to parties in SoMa in the future. It was down the alleyway that hadn't looked promising, tucked in amid the warehouses.
Turner showed up, to everyone's delight, and held court in the kitchen, tellling tales of Dilantin Turner who did not communicate important information to mainline Turner. He had a stress test this week, and apparently there's basically no damage to the heart, which amazed his cardiologist. His hot tip for the night: when the nice EMTs bring you back to life, go visit them later, because they'll be astonishingly grateful to see you vertical.
The Purim reading at midnight was v. amusing; the rules were that the Jews read the story, and the non-Jews acted it out, and everyone did the sound effects and random commentary. So basically Rocky Horror Purim. I did not obey the commandment to get drunk enough that you couldn't tell the difference between righteous Mordecai and wicked Haman, because of that driving thing.
Ended up in one of the bedrooms, making Ky read me Quenya poetry (pretty, pretty voice) and listening to some mixes dj fanboy had come up with. Someone suggested coming up with trance mixes of elvish. Acclaimed as a fine idea; the current plan is to do Namárië. Have been promised mp3s.