Just in case you were wondering what this man’s skeletal structure looked like, he decided to help you take out the guess work.

Similar to the real thing, if you drink about 15 of these, your heart will explode.  (Click picture 2x to read warning)

The San Fran Chronicles

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Day 2 – 8:30am

I have this unique ability to drink for a ridiculous amount of time, and then sleep for a ridiculously short amount of time; whether it is a blessing or a curse, only time will tell.  Mere does not have said ability, so I find it appropriate to turn on every light in the dungeon.

Mere  “What?  What’s happening?”
Me  “These lights signify morning.”
Mere  “It’s 8 fucking 30.”
Me  “You should feel great, you went to bed at 10:30 last night.”

Well, since she managed to call me from a neighboring phone, we can’t be positive when she actually crashed.

Mere  “I was so drunk yesterday.”
Me  “Yes, I know.”
Mere  “Turn the lights off.”
Me  “No.”
Mere  “Yes.”
Me  “I’m going to the bathroom, and then to the store to get liquids, look alive when I get back.”

Another blessing (curse) of mine is that I generally don’t get hangovers, although this morning my head is pounding a little bit.  I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror and see the bruise on my forehead, then it all comes smashing back to me.  I forgot I had rocked myself with the same door that I am just about to open.  A funny thing about Mere’s bathroom, as if the shower (which is not even in the bathroom) isn’t enough, is the fact that she shares it with the rest of the building.  The door from her room opens up into the building’s laundry room.  “Her” bathroom happens to be the toilet located in said laundry room.  So technically, it’s a public bathroom.  Luckily for Mere, I am not her neighbor.  If I was, I would never go “number 2” in my own place.  Instead, I would eat only Mexican food and bran muffins for a solid week, and then unleash fury on the community (Mere’s) toilet.  While I’m sitting in this uncomfortably small unit, I hear a noise above me.  Yes, at approximately 9 in the morning, I am hearing Mere’s neighbors having sex.  It sounds a bit more like “love making” than “fucking”, seeing as how the female groans are coming in 6 second intervals.  After getting the chicken wings and omelette out of my system, and eavesdropping a few extra minutes waiting for climax, I throw on some clothes and hit the streets.

Of course the store a groggy Mere had suggested is closed for the holiday, but I explore down the street just a bit and find a Walgreens.  As I enter, a homeless man asks me if I can spare some change.  I tell him yes and proceed to walk right passed him.  I grab a Powerade, giant water, Starbucks Double Expresso Shot Light, another random sports drink and I search for some Tylenol which had been requested.  The lady at the counter informs me that they only have bottles of 36 pills or more, after I ask for a 2 pill travel pack.  I ask for the whereabouts, she points me down an aisle but forgets to inform me that I need an employ to unlock the Tylenol (what a country).  I find another scientist (employee) and she opens up the section.  I grab a travel size bottle (8 pills) and head back towards the counter.  I give the lady a “yeah, you’re fucking stupid” look and pay for my items.

Day 2 – 9:30am

Back at Meres’, she still lays lifeless even with all the lights on.  The light switch is conveniently located by the door and not her bed, thus stopping her from blacking out the opium den once again.  I kick her ass out of bed, and I somehow find an internet connection as she’s getting ready.  Of course, there’s the email of “things to do” from mom.  Thanks mom.  The list includes Alcatraz, Golden Gate Park, Fisherman’s Wharf, and all the usual touristy hot spots.  Nowhere on the list does it suggest places to go where I can blackout for cheap.  Once Mere is ready, she again finds it necessary to quiz me about her appearance.

Mere  “So seriously, how do I look?”
Me  “Why do you dress like a husky boy?”
Mere  “I hate you.”

I grab a sweater on the way out the door since it’s a safe assumption that it might be awhile before we make it back.

Day 2 – 10:15am

The day is young and spirits are high, it is time to start drinking.  Mere complains of being hungry, I’m shocked.

Mere  “I’m hungry.”

As she strolls the city looking for a bagel shop worthy of her taste buds, she points out all the things I had already seen last night on my own.  To amuse her, I act surprised and intrigued.  After she eats, we continue to wander around.  A bus/trolley looking thing (not the original Danny Tanner style you are thinking of) heading towards Castro pulls in front of us.  With no agenda, we decided why not go gay?  We hop on the bus/trolley and head towards the Castro District.  If you are unfamiliar with San Francisco, this is the Gay District.  Buy hey, it’s San Francisco, I thought the whole place is gay?  This is true, but if San Fran was a homosexual dartboard, the Castro District would be the bull’s-eye (brown eye).  After checking out an advertisement on the bus/trolley, Mere speaks.

Mere  “A segway tour would be cool.”
Me  “How has natural selection allowed you to live this long?”

Once we reach Castro, I’m momentarily relieved to get off the bus/trolley.  My projecting voice and curiosity about the homosexual lifestyle had garnered me some very peculiar looks from several bus/trolley patrons.  Now if you think you’ve seen gay before, you have not.  West Hollywood and Key West don’t even compare to the pride seen on Castro Street.  Not only are all the streetlights decorated proudly with rainbow flags, but the sacred art of “guy-on-guy handholding” or “manholding” if you will, is practiced by all those who roam the streets.  The first couple that struts passed us has an estimated combined weight of 1700 lbs.

Mere  “Wow, those were some bears!”

Apparently, this is a term for portly homosexuals; I guess it’s more flattering than calling them manatees.  After perusing the area and almost purchasing a “Gay is the New Black” shirt, I realize I desperately need a cocktail.  Ok, I won’t be using the term “cocktail” until we change districts.  Actually, I desperately needed a “Budweiser Only Bar that also sells Beef Jerky, NASCAR memorabilia and girl-on-girl porn.”  Unfortunately, all we could manage to find was a place called Twin Peaks Tavern which had an older male bartender wearing a nametag that read “Stella.”

Day 2 – 11:00am

The one thing I have always respected about the gay community is that they have no qualms about drinking in the morning.  In fact, all the gay people I’ve ever known have been heavy drinkers.  That’s basically all it takes to win my friendship.  Religion, politics, and sexual orientation play a very small roll in defining a person, but if that person can slam a fifth of warm whiskey before noon, hello new best friend.  Anyway, after surveying the crowd, I do indeed order a Stella from Stella (2 actually).  Mere appears to still be “on the struggle,” but she tries her best to muscle down the drink.  She gives an odd look to something going on over my shoulder.

Me  “What?”
Mere  “Nothing, these two kids just walked by and they look familiar.”
Me  “Familiar?  I thought you didn’t know anybody?”
Mere  “They look like people I met yesterday.”
Me  “Oh.”
Mere  “Shit wait?!  That is them!”

Mere goes storming out of the bar after the kids; I sit nervously alone.  Gay people can smell the straight on me, this signals them to move in for the kill.

Gay Dude #1  “Well, look at this gorgeous man right here.”

I take the compliment.

Me  “How’s it hangin fellas?”
Gay Dude #2  “Now that your girlfriend’s gone, we’re gonna come sit with you.”
Me  “She’s not my girlfriend, clearly I could do better.”
Gay Dude #1  “What are you talking about, she’s so cute.”
Me  “Good thing you’re gay, because you have terrible taste in women.”

I chuckle along with my new gay friends and then head outside to find Mere.  She introduces me to the young 4some.  Apparently, she had met the 2 guys yesterday but didn’t know who the girls were.  All 4 were dressed in 4^th of July gear.  Mere and I had a moment of reflection.  We are both fans of “dressing for the occasion,” but it had slipped our minds that it was in fact Independence Day.  The 4some alerts us that they are going to drink at a bar called Lime, and then from there continue to stumble around aimlessly.  We decide to turn their 4some into a 6some.  We tell them that we will meet up at Lime in a little bit, but first we are going to make a half-assed attempt to find some tacky holiday gear.  We go back to the Tavern and finish our beers.  This place makes me a little bit nervous, so just as I begin to sweat, we find it an appropriate time to leave.

Day 2 – 11:30am

After searching up and down Market Street (a neighboring Street still in Castro) for 4^th of July paraphernalia, we come up fruitless.  Oh well, nothing a strong morning drinking habit can’t fix.  We had walked passed Lime where our new friends were, so as we turned around and continued to search for it, we figured it was some hard to find dive bar.  The bar had a neon pink sign and was practically glowing.  Apparently we are not very observant.  We walk into the bar, which is really more of a brunch restaurant, and see our comrades sitting at the counter.  After pulling up 2 chairs and forcing everyone to sit uncomfortably close together, I flag down the bartender.

Me  “How we doing sir, what’s your name?”
Bartender  “Manny.”
Me  “Well Manny, what’s the deal here?”
Manny  “7 dollar all you can drink Mimosas.”
Me  “What’s the catch?”
Manny  “You have to order food, otherwise it’s 2 dollar refills.”

A typical trade-off, but as I plan to drink my weight in Mimosas, we will see who comes out on top.  Oh, and on a side note, generally I have Mere do all the grease work with the bartenders, but in our current location, a man’s touch is called for.  We order food and I slam my first Mimosa before Manny is finished pouring Meres’.

Me  “Keep em’ coming.”

As I’m tearing through my 2^nd Mimosa, one of the males from the group we had just pirated stirs up a conversation with me.

Male #1  “Have you ever had a Tang Bang?”
Me (frightened) “Is that prison lingo?”
Male #1  “No, it’s a shot.”
Me  “Well let’s do the damn thing.”

The Tang Bang, this should have been my first clue that the heterosexuality line that Male #1 walks is a bit fuzzy.  I’ve been drinking for ages, and I’ve tried many unheard of drinks, but The Tang Bang was new to me.  You take a shot glass and fill it half with Vanilla Vodka, then you fill the second half with Mango Vodka.  Next, you drop it car bomb style into a glass of Redbull mixed with Orange Juice and proceed to chug.  Needless to say, The Tang Bang would not be served at the Budweiser Only Bar.  The drink was actually quite tasty, which is further proof that it was clearly a very feminine beverage.  After the shot, I continue on my quest to abuse the “bottomless” Mimosa offering.  The food comes out, and I tell the waitress she can take it straight to the trash; I am not hungry.  Mere goes outside with the majority of the group to set off bottle rockets in the street.  I take this time to get to know the female group mate next to me.

Me  “Hey.”
Girl #1  “HEY!  I’m drunk!”
Me  “Dibs.”
Idiot Woman  “Happy Birthday America!  WoooOOoOO!”
Me  “You know America wasn’t born on the 4^th of July right?”
Short Bus Historian  “Yay America!  WooOOOOoO!!!!”

I decide it best to not get to know Short Bus Historian.

Day 2 – 12:00pm

At this point, I am about 8 Mimosas deep, and have just finished my second Tang Bang.  I ask Mere for the time.

Me  “What time is it?”
Mere  “Almost noon.”
Me  “Wow, it’s gonna be a long day.”
Mere  “I’m already drunk again.”
Me  “I’m feeling fairly loopy.”
Mere  “These Mimosas are kinda weak.”
Me  “Obviously, that’s why we must drink 300 of them.”

Mere decides to work her magic on Manny.

Mere  “Manny, can you make us a separate pitcher.  Maybe a bit stronger?”
Manny  “I’ll take care of it.”

Manny is a good man.  Instead of pouring the premixed Mimosa into our glasses, he now fills the glass with champagne, and then tops it off with the premixed pitcher.

Me  “You’re the Man…ny!”

Manny gives me the “you’re an idiot” look.

Me  “Sorry, I’m an idiot.”

After about 15 Mimosas in total, it’s time to move on.  I see Male #1 and Male #2 asking for the check, and I’m hoping the 12 Tang Bangs are on it.

Me  “Let’s hope Gary and Ace are picking up the shots.”
Mere  “Yeah, we’ll see.”

Manny hands me my check, jackpot!  The burden of the shot payments has been put on the not so ambiguous duo.  I wait until after I see them pay, then I move in with my suaveness.

Me  “Wait a sec, none of the shots are on my tab?”
Gary  “Oh, that’s ok, we got it man!”
Me  “Oh no way, come on man, you should have told me!”
Gary  “Don’t worry about it, it was nothing.”
Me  “I can’t believe I let you guys get away with picking up this round!”
Gary  “It’s no biggie.”
Me  “Ok, well I got the next one!”

As I continue to smile and lie through my teeth, Mere nudges me.

Mere (whispering) “Wow, you’re good.”
Me  “I’m aware.”

Just as we are about to leave, Mere finds it to be an appropriate time to drop her final Mimosa on the floor, as well as all over me.  The clean up crew does a less than successful job, and I head to the restroom to clean myself off.  While waiting in line, I realize I still have some chicken wings in me that are looking for a way out.  Once in the restroom and seeing that the stall is in fact not a stall, but just a toilet in the middle of an open floor, I decide to “pinch it” until I can find an acceptable restroom.

Day 2 – 12:45pm

Once in the sunlight, I realize that I am indeed drunk.  Also, I have only one thing on my mind, finding a bathroom so I can “make #2.”  Whenever you have to go to the bathroom, especially “#2”, you cannot think about anything else.  I go from store to store begging and pleading to use the restroom, but with no luck.  I hear the same “go down the street to Safeway” response from every store owner.  To my surprise, I make it to Safeway without shitting myself.  The rest of the group waits across the street and shoots off more bottle rockets into the crowds (something that’s sure to make them popular with the people).  I return from Safeway.

Me  “Yeah, they don’t have 4^th of July shirts either.”

I’m not sure why it’s human nature to lie about shitting, as if we are ashamed or something, but whatever.  Gary and Ace have brought a soccer ball with them that they randomly kick around as they carry on down the street.  I have a short convo with Ace.

Me  “So what’s the plan?”
Ace  “We’re gonna hop in a cab and head towards Fillmore Street.”
Me  “No idea where or what that is, do you guys live there?”
Ace  “No, we live in Castro.”
Me  “Really?  You aren’t just visiting the area?”
Ace  “Nope.”

Gary and Ace have just gone from ambiguous to confirmed.  We pile 6 people into a 5 seater cab and head towards Fillmore Street, which is having a 4^th of July Jazz Festival.  Clearly I opt to sit alone and without a seatbelt in the back of the cab, while Mere grabs shotgun and pretends to know where she’s going.

Day 2 – 1:30pm

As we pile out of the cab and onto Fillmore Street, I can use another cocktail (this term is social acceptable again).  We weave through the crowds and into a bar called Harry’s.  Predictably, Gary and Ace order another round of Tang Bangs.  This time, the Bartendress fucks them up and pours 2 types of vodka, Redbull, and orange juice all into the same glass, simultaneously.  I remind her of her stupidity, and she makes up for it by topping off all the drinks with another 2 shots of vodka.  This shot, which now fills a rocks glass, tastes absolutely awful.  After dancing to a couple Michael Jackson songs, and laughing hysterically at a man who spills his food all over the floor and then attempts to clean it up, I realize it’s time to give our new “friends” the old heave-ho.

Me  “Mere, I think we should…”
Mere  “Yeah.”
Me  “Roger that.”

Mere and I separate from the special-ed herd and stumble back out onto Fillmore Street.  The street is loaded with makeshift flea market style gift shops, so we continue to search for tacky holiday apparel.  With no such luck, it’s time to use the bathroom again.  Luckily, this time I only need to go “#1.”  Generally, I am more than willing to urinate in public, but this street is too busy and I really don’t want to get arrested.  I walk into a nearby Subway.

Me  “Hey, I know you’re going to say no, but can I please use your bathroom?”
Subway Employee #1  “No.”
Me  “I swear I’m not homeless.”
Subway Employee #1  “We don’t have a bathroom, go to Starbucks.”
Me  “Listen toots, I will be really quick and I’ll put the seat down (never put it up).”
Subway Employee #1  “We really don’t have a bathroom.”
Me  “Ok, so if an employee has to go to the bathroom, what do you do?”
Lying Cuntbag  “We use Starbucks.”
Me  “I really don’t like you.”

I walk across the street to Starbucks, enraged and full of urine.  No surprise here, but there is a line about 10 people deep.  I have just surpassed my boiling point.  Allow me to digress for just a moment.

If you don’t hate homeless people, try living in a city full of them.  They are single-handedly responsible for my full bladder.  The reason places don’t open their restrooms to the public is because homeless people creep in and somehow manage to turn a single-stall bathroom into a studio apartment.  Every person inside of Starbucks is about to become an involuntary listener to my urinate-induced diatribe.

Me  “This is ABSOLUTELY RIDICULOUS!”

I now have everyone’s attention.

Me  “Can’t we just live in a world where we can use any restroom we please?”

I have a few supporting head nods.

Me  “Must our bladder’s suffer because of the homeless?”

I gain more followers.

Me  “I propose Proposition 13, free lineless bathrooms for all!  Can I get an amen?!”

Nobody gives me an amen.

Random Lady  “I agree with you young man, but may I suggest outside?”
Me  “Random Lady, I do not urinate in the streets before dusk.”
Random Lady  “They have set up port-a-potties, they have no lines.”
Me  “I have a dream!  To live in a world without port-a-potties!”

Mere calms me down as we exit the Starbucks restroom line.  Reluctantly, I use said port-a-potty.  Feeling calm and relieved (drunk and urine-free), we continue down Fillmore Street checking out all the festivities.  There is an outdoor dance floor with old school swing dancing being reenacted.  I ponder giving it a try with Mere, but deciding it’s best to avoid humiliation and a possible herniated disk, I just give the dancers a thumbs up instead.  As we continue to walk, moments later I hear a crowd shouting numbers at me.

Number Dude #1  “5.”
Number Chick #1  “8.”
Me  “Um, what are you doing?  Are you rating me?”
Number Dude #1  “Yes.”
Me  “Wait, so you’re just rating people as they walk by?”
Number Dude #1  “Yes.”
Me  “Like on physical appearance?”
Number Chick #2  “Not just physical appearance, but on whatever attribute we choose.”
Me  “That’s brilliant!”

Just as I begin to engage in conversation with some truly amazing people, security comes and interrupts the fun.  Apparently they are blocking a street.  I yell at the security guard for ruining a good time, but Number Dude #1 alerts me that it’s no big deal.

Number Dude #1  “Don’t worry man, we’re just gonna move to the bus stop.”
Me  “Where’s that?”
Number Dude #1  “Right over there, it’s actually in a more mainstream location.”
Me  “Well, you wouldn’t be interested in picking up 2 more judges would you?”
Number Dude #1  “Absolutely.”
Me  “Perfect.”

Mere and I had traded out a bi-curious (confirmed gay) 4some for an awesome new 4some that’s only task for the day is to drink publicly and insult random people.  They don’t know it yet, but I’m about to take their game to the next level.  I will not rest until I make somebody cry, or at least contemplate suicide.

CONTINUE ON TO PART 4

The San Fran Chronicles

Part 1

Part 2

Day 1 – 8:00pm

Since this was my first time in San Francisco, I had never known how small it was.  When I hear about a city as well known as San Fran, my general assumption is that it’s very large.  Although it does have a lot of people (roughly 700k), the city itself is only 7 by 7 miles in size.  This made it very easy to walk everywhere, and it also made cab fares relatively cheap when needed.  Since we are starting the night in the Marina district, it’s only a few minutes walk from Stephs’ to the restaurant.  On the way, Mere decides to by cigarettes; this is when it strikes me just how drunk Mere is.  Not because she is buying smokes, but because of the language that follows.

Mere (while looking at a wall of cigarettes) “Do you guys have cigarettes?”
Clerk  “Yes.”
Mere  “Can I buy some?”
Clerk  “Yes.”
Mere  “Can I buy Marlboro Menthol Lights?”
Clerk  “Yes.”
Mere  “Are you making fun of me?”
Clerk  “Yes.”

This conversation lasts another few unnecessary minutes, then we take to the streets with cigarettes in hand.

Mere  “You’re a faggot.”
Me  “Just because you look like a 3^rd grade boy and I’m hanging out with you, does not mean I’m a faggot.”

This was trouble; she had just dropped her “point of no return” word.  Now for Mere to insult someone, especially me, is nothing out of the ordinary.  For her to attack my heterosexuality by calling me a practitioner of homosexuality, again not out of the ordinary.  But the word “faggot” (not fag, homo, queer, gay, cock jockey, etc.) is a red flag alerting me that Mere is no longer with us this evening.  Everybody has that “thing” that signifies lights out.  For some, it’s a word or a phrase they use when the alcohol has taken over every last functioning brain cell, and for others it might be an action.  A lot of people (roid monkeys) become angry and aggressive, some people (chicks and weak men) cry uncontrollably for no reason, the list goes on.  My “thing” (or so I’ve been told) is what has become known as the Fake Pass Out.  Apparently when I reach my point of too much fun, I engage in said activity.  How it works is somebody calls my name, we lock eyes, and then I fake pass out, standing or seated, it does not matter.  Seconds later, I slowly open one eye to see if they’ve taken the bait.  Generally, I fool no one.  Anyway, bottom line, it looks like my wingwoman will be out of service within a few hours, max.

Day 1 – 8:30pm

We arrive at Mamacita; it is here when I have a new realization.  Now when you visit a friend somewhere, and they take you to their place of work, it’s common to assume they are experts of their area and their craft.  It has just dawned on me that Mere has only been living in San Fran for a few weeks, which I totally forgot.  So not only did she not know her way around the city, she also hasn’t worked a real shift yet; her first day will be Sunday night.  With this in mind, I start with beer (she looks like she can do a fine enough job of getting herself fired, no need for my assistance).  We grab a seat outside as the restaurant is expectedly busy on a Friday night.

When our server comes out, I learn his name is Sean.  He happens to be Gimpy’s roommate, but thankfully much cooler.  He quickly notices Mere’s state of inebriation and directs the drink order to me.  I order 2 Tecates, in the can (hey, gotta keep it classy).  Mere is going over the menu with me, which is very difficult to understand because she is retarded and the restaurant also happens to serve a lot of Spanish foods, hence Mamacita.  Another server, Kevin, pops out to say hello.

Kevin  “Hey, Kevin, nice to meet you man.”
Me (shaking hands) “Same here sir.”

Take a note Gimpy, this is how you leave a good (normal) first impression.

Kevin  “And how are you Meredith?”
Mere  “I’m Good (Drunk).”

If I knew how to type a backwards G for Good, I would.

Kevin (observant) “Wow, you’re fucked up.”
Mere  “No I’m not (Yes I am).”
Kevin  “I give it 2 hours til you’re passed out.”
Mere  “What, no way, I’ll be out all night (lie)!”

Now if you’re a betting man, consider Kevin a professional handicapper.  The over/under has been set at 10:30pm.  Smart money takes the under.

Kevin  “What do you guys want?”

Now Mere already knows what she (we) is (are) ordering, so I just give a head nod.  Kevin quizzes her as to what comes on our order, miraculously she gets everything right.  Moments later, our beer has arrived.  Thank God, I didn’t come here to make friends.  As I start to drink, we are joined by Mere’s GM.  This is one of those close-nit family restaurants (not like a mom and pop dive, but a restaurant where the staff seems like a family), which can either be great or suck.  If the staff is cool, a family style atmosphere makes work almost enjoyable.  If the staff is loaded with douches, work goes from Pauly Shore (bad) to Gary Busey (worse) real quick.  Fortunately for this restaurant, everyone I have met seems to be much cooler than Mere.  Unfortunately for this restaurant, they did agree to hire Mere.  Let’s move on.  Mere requests a random round of shots which the GM heads in to find.  Next, out comes the food.

Day 1 – 9:00pm

Like I said, the menu is very Spanish, so lots of things are hard to read.  Mere had ordered the chilaquiles casi listos, which I’m fairly certain translates to “Delicious Heart Attack.”  Any item that comes with tortilla chips but requires a spoon does not strike me as Atkins approved.  As Mere dives in, I can’t help but to reflect on a conversation we had earlier that day.  A conversation where she asked me if she looks like she had gained weight and I politely lied to her and said no.  Regardless on one’s stance on nutrition, this interesting appetizer was very delicious.  After a few bites, I focus more on my beer as well as internally scrutinizing Mere’s assault on said meal.  Shortly thereafter, the GM returns with a tray carrying 3 shot glasses.  Tequila time.

I can’t remember the name of the Tequila, mainly because I don’t speak Spanish, but apparently it is very clean.  I asked if it was “better” than Patron.  I’m not a big tequila drinker, I just know from extensive bar hopping experience that Patron is always way more expensive than the tequila I prefer, Albertson’s brand.  The GM finds this laughable.  Apparently this tequila has no sugar and is somehow cleaner than 100 percent Agave brands.  I don’t know what that means, and if you honestly care, just Google “tequila.”  I had one concern to express.

Me  “Does this do the same thing as regular tequila?”
GM  “What do you mean?”
Me  “Help me make poor decisions?”
GM  “Yes.”

And down goes the shot.  We spend a few more minutes at the restaurant as I slam the rest of Mere’s Tecate.  She picks up the tab (finally being useful) and we head to the next destination, The Tipsy Pig.

Day 1 – 9:30pm

On the way to The Tipsy Pig, we walk passed a bar called Delaney’s.  This is just a quick shout out to my UCF folks; we have a popular college bar called Devaney’s (it even has the same colors).  Next, we enter The Tipsy Pig, which is the sister restaurant of Mamacita, but offers later hours and more of a bar atmosphere.  The bar is really crowded as we muscle our way to the counter.  The man in front of us gets up to offer his seat to his date.  Mere finds this an appropriate time to dive in from the other side.  She gives unwarranted dirty looks to the Nice Couple as I quickly rip her from the stool.

Mere  “What?!?”
Me  “Keep it together woman.”

Mere heads to the restroom as I order a Lagunitas IPA, and a Stella for my partner in crime.  There are 3 sizes, Piglet (10oz), Pint (16oz), and Tipsy Pig (20oz, also served in a goblet-esque glass).  Now if I need to clarify which size I ordered, please stop reading this and go split a Mike’s Hard Lemonade with your 13 year old cousin.  As I wait for my drinks, I take this moment to apologize to Nice Couple.

Me  “Sorry about that, she wasn’t paying attention.”
Nice Couple  “Oh not a problem, is that your wife?”

I restrain from punching, and then vomiting all over Nice Couple.

Me  “Clearly I can do much better than that.”

After I shoot an offensive wink at the female member of Nice Couple, I grab the drinks and head towards the outside portion of the bar.  While in route, I snag Mere who is walking back towards the bar.  The outside area is also very busy, so we bunk up with a 3some disguised as LA trash.  After exchanging several lines of dialogue with the 3some, apparently not so much disguised, rather just LA trash.  It’s 1 dude wearing sunglasses at 10:00pm, and 2 women who are dressed like they’re unaware that they are actually pushing 50.  Their faces look like middle school science lab skeletons with latex masks hanging loosely from them.  Mere throws them a dirty look, this time said look is warranted.  All of a sudden my phone rings, it’s my mom.  This is strange because where she’s calling from it’s 1 in the morning.

Me  “Hello?”
Mom  “Hi.”
Me  “Yes?”
Mom  “Just saying hi.”
Me  “Is there something I can help you with?”

Before I get a chance to hear the reply, Mere rips the phone from me.

Mere  “Hi mommy.”

I can no longer hear the other end of the phone, but Mere actually sounds coherent.  She randomly collects herself for a 10 minute conversation with my mother, after only moments ago when she literally looked through me as I passed her in the bar hallway.  This is a skill that many people possess, I do not.  The conversation ends with Mere (a resident of San Francisco) asking my mom (a resident of Florida) for a list of things to do in San Francisco.  I say goodbye and hang up.  It’s time for the next bar.  My buzz is starting to kick in, but I am nowhere near the “vacation level” of drunk that I wish to attain by night’s end.

Day 1 – 10:15pm

Monaghan’s was the name of the next bar I saw, so we dove in.  They also had a sign claiming $3 Red Stripe, game on.  Once in the bar, we found a couple stools available towards the far end.  I can’t recall the bartender’s name, but he recognized Mere from a week or so ago when she was in here with Steph.  He was heavyset and sweating profusely, but did a fine job of opening my Red Stripe.  After about 3 minutes of leisure sitting, Mere alerts me that it is time to go.

Mere  “It is time to go.”
Me  “What, why?  I’m just starting to catch up.”
Mere  “I need to go to sleep, let’s get a cab.”

Seeing this as an opportunity to “cut the fat” so to speak, I slam the rest of her beer and we head back out.  As Mere blindly walks into oncoming traffic in attempts to hail a cab, I pull her ass back to the curb.

Me  “You don’t move.”

I flag us down a cab and we pile in and head back towards her place.  Now, being the gentleman (lost vacationer) that I am, I thought the noble (necessary) thing to do would be to drop her off and find a bar near her house.  As we get there, the Cab Driver says he will wait a minute and take me to a bar several blocks away “where the chicks are.”  Thank you sir.  I escort Mere back down the creepy hallway and into her place.  This is where she begins to test my drunk patients.

Mere  “I’m going with you.”
Me  “What?  What are you talking about?”
Mere  “I’m going with you to the bar.”
Me  “Are you out of your fucking mind?  We drove here so you could go to sleep.”
Mere  “I don’t want to go to sleep.”
Me  “Then how come you said to get a cab, and I quote ‘I need to go to sleep’?”
Mere  “I never said that?”

This is getting a bit ridiculous.

Mere  “I’m coming, I just need to use the bathroom.”

Perfect.

Me  “Ok, but hurry up, the Cab Driver is waiting.”
Mere  “Ok.”

As the bathroom door closes, I make my stealthy getaway back to the streets.  See ya Mere, it’s time for fun!  I dive into the cab.

Me  “DRIVE, DRIVE, DRIVE!”

The Cab Driver takes off.  Oh, and if you took the Under on 10:30pm, give youself a pat on the back, for you are victorious!  A few minutes later, the Cab Driver drops me off at place called Mad Pianos.  This is a dueling piano bar associated with a neighboring Irish pub called Johnny Foley’s.  I consider both establishments, but choose to go with the piano bar because, well because piano bars are always a good time.  The Mensa member (doorman) takes way too long scanning my Florida ID and finally let’s me into the bar.  This place is super busy, but the moment I walk in I hear one of the pianists announcing some girl’s 21ist birthday.  Jackpot!  I literally shove my way to the bar, giving that “it was the guy behind me” expression to everyone who glares.

Bartender  “What will it be?”
Me  “Guinness and a shot of Jameson.”

That’s right, it’s time to get sloppy.  I had borrowed a post-it from the Cab Driver on which I wrote Mere’s address, so incase I am unable to follow her detailed map home, I can stick the post-it on my forehead and wander the streets with my thumb out.  I continue to jolt through the crowd looking for a spot to post up and gaze intently at the stage like a stoned college kid staring at the party’s fire-pit; allow me digress just for a moment.

I am very new at the whole “alone at the bar” thing.  I’m not really of huge fan of drinking alone (publicly, that is).  Back in the day (college, 5 months ago), if I was alone at a bar, I was at least friends with the bartender/bartendress; it’s a bit different now, but I’m learning to adjust.  Furthermore, my alone “game” is very weak and undeveloped.  I have a strong personality, and most would suspect that I’d be just fine walking into a group unarmed (wingmanless) and firing away with the stupidity that usually comes rifling out of my mouth, but this is not my forte.  Even in the old days if I was to approach a girl alone, if conversation became stale, I would just invite her back to the area where my friends were and engage in some sort of drinking game.  Nowadays, I don’t think any girl would be interested in joining me in my creep corner to stare at the group of girls that I just pulled her away from.  Moving on.

The battery on my camera is about to kick, so I try my best to capture a picture of the 2^nd Birthday Girl I’ve seen today as she stumbles around on stage.  2 songs later, and after learning that 2^nd Birthday Girl’s party was more of a family thing and not a pack of post 21 depressants that wreak of desperation and Tequila and can be easily duped into sexual exploitation, I rip 2 more shots of whiskey and head back outside.  I do a walk through of the adjoining bar, but as I discover no excitement, I’m outside once again.

Day 1 – 11:30pm

As I’m stumbling around happy (drunk) and alone (bored), I come across a place called Union Square Sports Bar.  It has just occurred to me that I am fucking starving!  I only ate 2 out of the 3 bags of jerky that I had brought on the trek, and a few spoonfuls of fat-soaked tortilla chips from Mamacita.  A Sports Bar should have food, why not?  I head in and find a stool and a meager crowd.  The Bartendress hustles over to take my order.

Bartendress  “Hey sweetie, what can I get you?”

I love how slutty Bartendresses dress and talk; they are like strippers, but drunk instead of coked up.

Me  “Not sure, do you guys serve food?”
Bartendress  “Sorry, kitchen’s closed.”
Me  “That’s too bad, I’ll take an Amstel Light draft.”
Useless Hooker  “You got it love!”

I can’t quite recall if Useless Hooker was hot and/or Asian.  For those of you not familiar with California, Asians are everywhere.  In Florida, the only time you see an Asian person is at Disney World, or if you are being tutored.  I finish this beer quickly because I can’t get my drunk mind off food; this is the mission, and it will be accomplished.  Perhaps Danny Tanner will be seated next to me at the diner, who knows.  I pay for the beer, part ways with Useless Hooker, and crawl back outside.  I can’t recall if it was Useless Hooker that told me where to go for food, or if it was a random streetwalker.  If it was Useless Hooker, she is now just Hooker.

Day 2 – 12:15am (estimate)

Luckily, Café Mason is open 24 hours a day and only a block away!  I fall in through the front door and find a seat at the bar counter.  I order a Stella as I peruse the menu for the perfect item (items).  I can’t decide between the chicken wings or the Santa Fe omelette (Chorizo (pork sausage), jack cheese & bell peppers), so I go with both.  The Server quizzes me with her eyes, searching for signs of marijuana use.  No Server, I am not high, merely drunk.

Me  “What, is that too much food or something?”
Server (giggling) “Well, it’s a lot.”
Me  “I’m a growing boy.”
Server  “I guess so, let me put that in for you.”
Me  “That’s what she said.”
Server  “What?”
Me  “Huh?”

She walks away in confusion.  I must have been intoxicated, “that’s what she said?”  That hasn’t been funny ever since The Office claimed they came up with it and ruined such a brilliant term for everyone else.  The chicken wings came out fast; I am excited.  After devouring these in a matter of minutes, I call for my omelette.  As Server returns with my omelette, a Strange Older Woman stands over my shoulder and address her.

Strange Older Woman (whispering)  “Um excuse me?”
Server  “Yes?”
Strange Older Woman  “I think there is someone on the floor in the ladies room.”
Me  “Dibs.”

I laugh alone.

Server  “Really, what do you mean?”
Strange Older Woman  “I’ll show you.”

The two head towards the ladies room to help scrape my Future Wife from her tile bed.  Server returns with a panic look on her face.  She rushes to get the manager, who joins her in the restroom.  There is a lot of whispering and I can’t quite understand what’s going on; I continue to manhandle my omelette.  Server is joined by Server #2, they begin to gossip about the bathroom chick.  Several of my sexual advances towards said Servers go unnoticed.  Either they couldn’t understand me, or the wing sauce and ketchup on my face didn’t exactly scream “3some material.”

Day 2 – 1:00am (estimate)

All of a sudden, my phone rings.  I do not recognize the number.

Me  “Hello?”
Mere  “HEY!”
Me  “What the fuck?  Mere?  Who’s number is this?”
Mere  “You ditched me!”
Me  “I didn’t ditch you, you fell asleep so I went back out.”
Mere  “Really?”
Me  “Sure.  Where are you?”
Mere  “At my neighbors, where are you?”
Me  “Some restaurant.”
Mere  “Where, I’m coming to meet you.  I’m hungry.”
Me  “Mere I’m leaving soon, heading back towards your place.”
Mere  “Well bring me something home.”
Me  “Ok.  See ya.”
Mere  “Wait, I didn’t tell you what I want?”
Me  “Yeah you did.”
Mere  “Oh, ok, see ya.”

Just as I hang up and ask for my bill, the police arrive.  I search my pockets to make sure that my “stash” is not visible, and then it dawns on me that I’m no longer 15, and that I in fact have no “stash.”  The police rush towards the restroom and return moments later carrying my Future Wife between them.  It seems I had misread the situation.  The woman in the restroom, who I presumed to be heavily intoxicated and taking a floor nap, was in fact an elderly lady who had fallen down.  Have you ever seen those old people necklaces, the ones where if the fall or get stuck, they can press a button on it and it calls for help?  Apparently those aren’t just to humor us young, agile people, and they do in fact serve a purpose!  Whodathunkit?  As Granny gets dragged on by…

Me  “Undibs.”

Server laughs, so I make a last ditch effort to bring her back to Mere’s cave to share a full-size bed with me and one other person.

Me  “What are you doing later?”
Server  “I work for like another hour.”
Me  “After that?”
Server  “Going home, I’m tired.”
Me  “You sure you don’t want to come home with me and share a bed with 2 strangers?”
Server  “Is that a joke?”
Me  “Depends on your answer.”

Server’s giggle/laughter has turned into a confused/terrified blank stare.

Me  “Yes, it was a joke.  Please don’t overcharge me.”

Clearly, it was no joke.  With a fruitless hook-up attempt, I cash out, go outside and find a cab.  I’m drunk, full, and ready to collapse (aka Mere from 3 hours ago).  I show the man my post-it with the address and he takes off.  I make it to my destination, throw a wad of cash at the driver and use the spare keys Mere had given me to let myself in.  I enter her room, but she is nowhere to be found.  I call the number she had called me from.

Me  “Hello?”
Random Dude  “Hello?”
Me  “Yeah, I’m looking for Mere.”
Random Dude  “Oh, I’m her neighbor.”
Me  “Oh, sorry man, is she over?”
Neighbor  “Nope, she left like 30 minutes ago.”
Me  “Ok, thanks.”

Fuck, she would get lost in her own building (although since she is the only one on the dungeon level, I see how it’s possible).  Moments later, I hear a noise.  Apparently I am now the dumb one.  She is snoring under the covers in her bed behind me.  Crisis avoided.  I barge into her bathroom, but forget to open the door first.  I smash my head against it.  Since technically it’s already the 4^th of July, I consider tonight/this morning “holiday pregaming.”  I do the only intelligent thing one can do after bashing your head against a wooden door, I go directly to sleep hoping that I will eventually wake up.

CONTINUE ON TO PART 3

The San Fran Chronicles

Part 1

(click the LINKS within the story for pictures)

Thursday Afternoon

The 4th of July is this coming Saturday, and as I sit in front of my computer reading the online Wall Street Journal (watching porn), my phone rings.  It’s Mere, a close friend from college who, like myself, has parted ways with Florida and is now living in California.

Mere  “Hey, what ya doing?”
Me  “Not watching porn.”
Mere  “You’re disgusting.  What are you doing this weekend?”
Me  “Um probably gonna check out Manhattan beach with a buddy.”
Mere  “Cool, you should come visit me in San Francisco.”
Me  “Sure, why not, my life’s going nowhere.”
Mere  “Really?!”
Me  “I’m not afraid of a good time.”
Mere  “Cool, when can you get here?”
Me  “Not sure, let me see if I can get off work Friday.”

It is Thursday, nothing like a last minute effort to ditch out of work; and when I use the term “work,” I’m referring to the 1 of 3 hours a week that I teach a Spinning class.  I have to teach Friday at 10:30am, but I would rather head out early Friday morning.

Me  “If not, I’ll just roll up right after I teach.”
Mere  “Ok, well try to get here early.”
Me  “Ok, why?”
Mere  “A girl from my work is having her birthday party in the park.”
Me  “Right-O.  Let me make some calls and I’ll get back to you.”
Mere  “Yay!” (she really does talk like that)

After trying vigorously to get my shift covered (sent out 2 text messages), no dice.  I call Mere back and tell her that I’ll take off right after my shift.  I pack my bag the night before with all the essentials:  1 camera, 2 beanies, a couple sweaters, swim cap and goggles, two pairs of jeans, and a couple t-shirts are just a few of the items.  Since I’m leaving from Venice, I ask my roommate (Rob) and his buddy (Eric) for directional advice.  My roommate has been living in Venice for longer than I have been alive.

Me  “I think I’m heading to San Fran this weekend.”
Rob  “Nice, how you getting there?”
Me  “You tell me.”

I have 3 options.  The PCH which takes about 11 hours but has the scenery to make up for it, the 101 which takes about 8 hours but has lots of speed traps, or the 5 which is like a virgin’s sex drive, fast and ugly; I opt to lose my virginity again.

Day 1 – 11:30am

Friday is here and I have just finished teaching a Spin class.  I made 60 bucks for 1 hour of “work,” if I was teaching 40 spin classes a week, I’d be living on easy street.  I rush home, shower up, and throw on my traveling clothes (jeans, t-shirt, hat, and “just in case” hoody) which I had previously laid out in the shape of a human the night before.  All I need now are my traveling refreshments, which await me in the kitchen.  2 rockstars, 1 powerade, and 3 large bags of jerky (on sale for $1.99, if you’re a jerky fan, you will understand how cheap that is) should be plenty to get me through the 5-6 hour drive up the 5.  I dive in my car and take off exactly at noon.

I get about 20 minutes of driving in before it’s time to break out the camera.  In California, there are large fines for talking/texting on your cell while driving, however I’m not aware of any laws forbidding photography, which is clearly way more dangerous.  The scientist driving next to me might want to pull over and readjust the straps that are holding the mattress to his SUV.  While driving, I text (suck it LAPD) Mere and alert her that I’m on the way.  Now, clearly I’m no fan of sobriety, but I do put in a simple request that she at least remain coherent until I arrive.  After getting caught in LA traffic for about 45 minutes, I break free and head towards my destination going 20 over.

As my roommate and buddy had advised, this drive is boring as fuck.  Not too much to tell here, although I do notice a couple interesting things.  The road signs are a bit confusing, generally they go in order from closest to farthest.  The radio stations on this road suck, nothing but Christian Rock and Country.  Right as I’m about to throw in a new CD, I hear something interesting on 106.7.  As I turn up the volume, I realize that I did just in fact hear the chorus line “rockin’ the beer gut.”  Just when you think you can’t possibly make fun of Country music anymore, the song Rockin’ the Beer Gut by Trailor Choir (go figure) comes blaring through your radio (I will admit, I did enjoy singing along).  I’m not sure exactly how hot it is on this desert highway (I accidentally pressed a button a year ago and my dashboard thermometer has since been in Celsius), but 41 degrees C seems scorching.  My suspicions of intolerable heat are confirmed when I drive passed a car that had burst into flames.  Because I’m so impressed with my ability to take such an amazing picture while doing just under 100, I completely neglect the frantic man waving his arms in the air and screaming for help.  As I cross the Bay bridge, I get slapped with a ridiculously expensive (4 dollar) toll.  I consider running it to avoid the wait and financial burden, but I tough it out.  6 hours after leaving home, I’ve made it to San Francisco.

Day 1 – 6:00pm

I get on my phone and call Mere, she gives me her precise location (“a park”).  I hear a background voice tell her the cross streets (Marina and Laguna), so I punch those into the old GPS (lifesaver) and carry on my way.  San Francisco driving is not much better than that of Los Angeles.  People (Asians) drive slow as shit with the delusional misunderstanding that they are in fact the only car on the road.  After several one-way street mishaps and multiple illegal U-turns (the GPS is helpful, but it can’t cure dumbass), I arrive at my destination.  Once I park the car, I get back on the phone with Mere as I walk towards the only visible park.

Me  “Hey, I’m here!”
Mere  “You’re here!?”
Me  “Yeah, where do I go, I’m walking towards the park.”
Mere  “Ok, um, I don’t know?”
Me  “Wow, you’re useful.”
Mere  “What do you see?”
Me  “Water on one side, park on the other.”

As I continue to walk uphill towards the park, I take in all the sights.  The Hippie in me loves this city; the weather is perfect and the environment is beyond picturesque.  I’m still on my phone as I reach the top of the hill, which also happens to be the center of the park, then suddenly a distant screaming voice startles me.

Mere  “AHHhhhHHHhhhhH!!!!!

That noise traveled through the entire park, not to mention through my phone and directly into my ear.  Seconds later I make eye contact with the quagmire that is Mere.  As she runs towards me, shoeless, I realize she did not fulfill my early request of remaining coherent.  She dives on me with an overzealous hug that almost knocks me off my feet.

Mere  “I can’t believe you’re here!”
Me  “Yup.”
Mere  “AHHhhhHHHhhhhH!!!!!”
Me  “Ok, we’re gonna have to stop that.”

Mere introduces me to the Birthday Girl (twice); Birthday Girl makes Mere look sober.  Before I’m introduced to anymore forgettable people, I search for a public restroom (I had drank 2 Rockstars, a 32oz Powerade, and made the 6 hour trek sans (without) a pit stop).  When I return, I grab a bottle of Jager and take the final swig as the birthday clan appears to be packing up.  Mere introduces me to more people, most of whom I believe she had just met that day.  I meet Birthday Girl’s mother; she makes Birthday Girl look sober.  Moments later, when Birthday Girl and said mother are done grinding on each other while listening to Pony by Ginuwine, Birthday Girl introduces herself to me (I met her thrice in a 15 minute period, I think I’m going to like San Fran).  Mere had mentioned something early about meeting up with Steph (another UCF Alumni turned Californian) before she had to go to the airport.  I grab a beer and go to ask her about Steph, but I’m stopped by an unfamiliar voice.

Random Dude  “Oh, so you’re Mere’s boy?!”

I respect the kid’s overzealous attempt to leave a “cool” first impression, but mission unaccomplished.  I also notice he is on crutches, which is quite an unfortunate circumstance in such a hilly city.

Me  “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
Gimpy  “That’s hella cool, where you from bro!?”

God help me.

Me  “Florida.  I’m living in Venice right now, it’s on the Westside of LA.”
Gimpy  “Sick.  I thought about moving to LA, that place is dope!”

Ok, this is about all I can take of Gimpy.

Me  “Yeah, it’s not bad… Mere?!?”

Mere pops in.

Mere  “Yo?”
Me  “What’s the deal with Steph, aren’t we meeting with her soon?”
Mere  “Oh yeah that’s right, you want to get out of here?”
Me  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

Just when I thought I had seen the last of Gimpy…

Mere  “Alright, we’re taking off.”
Gimpy  “Hey Mere, you think you could give me a lift?”

Apparently Gimpy lives about a block away from Mere, how fortunate for us.  Whatever, I’m on vacation, so I’m in a jovial mood.

Me  “Yeah man, you can hop in my car.”
Gimpy  “Thanks bro, that’s sick!”
Me  “Yeah, don’t mention it.”

Translation: Please stop speaking.

Mere, Gimpy, and myself say our goodbyes and head down the hill and towards my car.  We stuff Gimpy in the back, and head towards Nob Hill (the San Fran district in which they both live).  As Mere and I talk about my drive up and begin to reminisce, Gimpy chimes in.

Gimpy  “Hey man, can you do me a huge favor?”
Me  “Um what?”
Gimpy  “Can you swing by the train station and pick up my buddy?”

Is Gimpy for real?  How bout I swing passed the station and tie his crippled ass to the tracks?  I don’t know how well Mere knows this kid, so I’m waiting for her to chime in, but all she can talk about is how bad she has to pee.  Again, I’m sober and in a new area, so I’m being extremely nice.

Me  “Where is it?”
Gimpy  “I’m not sure.”

Ok Gimpy, are you familiar with sodomy?  I have a neon green plastic Fisher-Price baseball bat in the back of my car that could use a new ass-hat.  Again, I keep my cool.

Me  “Ok, well I guess I’ll punch it into my GPS.”

The station comes up, and ironically enough, it does happen to be very close.  Although, after I turn the corner and run into rush hour traffic, Gimpy is cut off.  I tell drunk Mere to fix the glitch; she takes care of it.

Mere  “No train station, I have to pee.”

So we’re back in route towards Mere’s place, and as we arrive shortly, I get real lucky with a 2-hour parking spot (unbelievably, parking is worse here than in LA).  Gimpy opens his mouth again, with another request.  I’m not going to type anymore of his dialogue because it upsets me, but the gist of it was that he was hoping I could help him carry beer back towards his place because he was on crutches and it was all uphill.  It must have been the high elevation or something, because I agreed.  I carried the 12 pack of Corona up 1 block, and then dumped the responsibility on his train depot pal who had ended up having to catch a cab.  Gimpy quizzes me about tonight’s plans, I mumble and trail off while waving goodbye and walking in the opposite direction.

Day 1 – 7:15pm

I head back towards my car where I meet back up with Mere.  I grab my luggage as she escorts me towards her pad; just walking into her place is beyond hysterical.  It’s through this creepy outdoor hallway that leads to just 1 lone room.  Once inside the room, everything from the floor, to the walls, to the ceiling, is painted white.  If she is not cooking up meth in here, she damn well should be.  Before I had hit the road towards San Fran, Mere had told me to shower.  Obviously I had to after teaching a Spinning class, but I was curious as to why she thought I wouldn’t.  She told me that her shower situation was a bit “iffy.”  I quickly learned what she meant.  This dungeon was so old that there was no shower.  Instead, it was a bathtub with a shower head-esque hose which needed to be screwed into a distant sink to get water.  But wait, there’s more.  In order to drain said tub, she has a separate tube which she must plug into a drain in the middle of her room once she is done bathing.  Mere brings nothing but class to the table.  In case of an emergency and I am to get separated/lost, sober Mere was smart enough to draw me a detailed map of her residential coordinates.  Moments later, a sauced up Mere receives a text and alerts me that Steph has arrived.  We head back down the sketchy hallway to welcome her.

Me  “Hey oooooo!”
Steph  “Hi!!!”
Mere  “AHHhhhHHHhhhhH!”
Steph  “Mere’s drunk.”
Me  “Yeah, a little bit.”
Mere  “No I’m not.”

That’s the classic drunk-o go to line.  It’s like when a cop pulls you over and asks how much you’ve had to drink and you robotically reply, “2 drinks.”  Regardless, we head back inside the opium den as Mere gets ready.  I grab a Heineken from her mini fridge/night stand while she finishes up.  We head back to the streets and drive towards Steph’s house; Steph lives in the Marina district, which also happens to where Mere works.  Her restaurant, Mamacita, will be where we (I) begin our (my) adventure.  I find a 2nd miracle parking spot near Stephs’ (this is where my car will remain until I vacate the city).  We check out her place, snap a picture for ol’ times sake, rip a shot of Tequila, bid Steph farewell, and take to the streets.  With the car in hibernation and the entire night ahead of me, I have only two goals:  get sauced up and locate Danny Tanner.

CONTINUE ON TO PART 2