Typical. Absolutely.

I was so excited to attend the "Mythic Picnic," a monthly TRICKSTER ARTS SALON. YES. I KNOW. I'M OVERWHELMED BY THE SHEER PERFECTION AS WELL. I RSVP'ed online, quickly checked the general area of what it said was the location ("Hmm, Fisherman's Wharf... that's an odd place for an arts salon..." I thought), then quickly got in a Carmen Miranda-like outfit, packed up the freaksha hat for work, and spent the whole rest of the day telling everyone about my impending jester convention.

At 8:30 I set off in search of a cheap bus and cheap food and found neither... at 9 I was wandering through Chinatown (in the opposite direction of the wharf) and at 9:30 I was in Little Italy (also not very close to the wharf) ordering an avocado salad and wondering if I would ever make it to the other jesters. At 10 I was finishing the remnants of my salad as I plodded determinedly along the outskirts of the wharf toward a set of promising looking lights. I reached the Mechanical Museum, which, for some reason, was where I was convinced the convention was, but there was no sign of life.

I walked out on the piers but they were empty. I walked by some buildings; a lone Mexican busboy was rolling out some trash. I walked on some more piers and got excited when I heard noise and laughter, but it was people dressed up like sailors, not minstrels.

I finally came across some fishmongers and restrained myself from asking where the jester convention was; instead I asked if there were any hip bar slash clubs nearby. We were standing on a sidewalk soaked with dishwater and the air reeked of dead fish. The mongers exchanged a look.

"Rainforest Cafe?" They asked.

"Never mind," I said.

"Do you have a number for the place? A name? An address?" One of the men asked. He was obviously one of those irksome people who try to actually follow through and help you solve your problem once it's been presented.

"Kind of," I said. "No. I mean, I was just passing through and thought I would check out this place I thought was here. But it's not. Never mind," I said again.

Now the men looked really troubled, but I was already wandering off again. I saw the sign for Taylor Street, which meant it was only a good three miles over the hill before I was back safe on Isadora Duncan Lane.

I hadn't made it a block before I got the giggles over the sheer and glorious irony. Deep down I had had some reservations over attending a whole gathering of self-proclaimed tricksters and minstrels; I only call myself a jester because I don't want to be like anyone else... if I got cynical about trickstering, what would I have left? And thus, my subconscious (and sheer lack of organization and follow-through) manifested this situation, in which I wandered aimlessly around fisherman's wharf in my jester get-up and failed to find the minstrel convention.

The end!