The San Fran Chronicles

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Day 3 – 10:00am

The last day of any vacation, for me, is no different than the first.  I still wake up early with excitement, I still shake off the cobwebs (Cassie shout-out) from the previous night, and then I once again contemplate if it is still too early to begin drinking (socially, of course).  As promised, I let Mere sleep in for a change.  I search for the spare keys I had previously been given and take to the streets.  I venture to the mart which was closed yesterday.  I teeter-totter back and forth between Gatorade and Anchor Steam (hey, it’s vacation, don’t judge me), ultimately, I grab the beer.  After a moment of reflection, I consider my mother’s feelings and how this might not make her proud, so I also buy the Gatorade to help smooth out my mental angst.  I head back to the dungeon.

Day 3 – 11:00am

After flicking on the lights…

Me  “Get up slim.”
Mere (groggy) “Eh, Uh, Ah, Oh, what?”
Me  “Morning is here, last day of vaca, time to rock and/or roll.”
Mere  “Fine.”

To my surprise, she actually gets up fairly quick.  I start to toss back the beer, followed with a Gatorade chaser.

Mere  “Are you drinking?”
Me  “I’m not afraid of a good time.”
Mere (shrugs) “Makes sense.”

Wasting only a few minutes, we head out the door.

Mere  “How do I look?”
Me  “It’s nice out today.”
Mere  “Asshole.”

Day 3 – 11:30am

Finally after a couple in San Fran, I see my first Danny Tanner style Trolley.  Although to my dismay, he is not on board.  It is a Sunday morning, so the Trolley is super busy, especially in the direction we are going, which is the touristy area, referred to as Fisherman’s Wharf (or just “The Wharf” if you roll safety-off).  There is literally no sitting room on the Trolley, but the conductor (I think that’s what you call them) directs us towards two standing spots on the far side.

Conductor  “Two standing spots over there!”
Me  “Sounds good.”
Conductor  “Just jump on and grab the pole!”
Mere  “Yeah, heard that one before.”

The crowd, children and elderly included, go wild.  Mere has finally made a joke that flirts with disaster but went over swimmingly.  Generally Mere is funny, but it’s because she looks dumb.  Her jokes on the other hand, not always top notch.  Usually, people laugh at Mere’s jokes much in the same spirit that they would cheer for someone in the Special Olympics.  Ok, moving on.  As I said, the Trolley is completely packed, so basically I’m giving the person in front of me a very public lap dance.  Also, as we pass other Trolleys which are headed in the opposite direction, you have to lean way forward as to not get smashed.  In other words, if you could find two daring competitors, a “Trolley Joust” would be a lot of fun.  After a couple unintentional pelvic thrusts into the poor girl that is sitting in front of me, I decide to go for an icebreaker.

Me  “I’m not from around here.”

As I’m wearing boardshorts and a t-shirt in windy 40 degree weather, she is not surprised.

Girl  “Where are you from?”
Me  “Florida.”
Girl  “Really, me too.”
Me  “Oh, I’m from Tampa.”
Girl  “No way, me too.”

This is odd.  Now I begin to do that thing where you zero in on your exact location.  We always start broad and zoom in because there’s no way someone we are publicly dry humping on the other side of the country has ever heard of my little hometown, or is there?

Me  “Ok, try this on for size, Clearwater?”
Girl  “Dunedin.”

Holy shit!  If you aren’t impressed or have no idea how close these places are, Mapquest this shit.

Me  “Actually Palm Harbor, by Curlew and McMullen Booth.”
Girl  “I went to PHU.”

You have got to be fucking shittin me!

Me  “Me too!  Holy hell this is weird for being sober.”
Girl  “I graduated from Medical in 02.”
Me  “Traditional (dumb) in 04.”

I quickly scan my brain to thing of people who I knew in her class, only one man comes to mind.

Me  “Do you know Bernd?”
Girl  “Yeah of course.  Do you know Big C?”
Me  “Get the fuck out of here, those 2 characters are some of my oldest friends!”
Girl  “Yeah, I live in there neighborhood.”
Me  “No shit!”

Ok, as I’m typing this, I’m realizing it’s only exciting to me, so I’ll skip the rest of the details.  The girl introduces me to her parents who are sitting next to her, I apologize for saying fuck, shit, and holy hell, and then I introduce them to Mere.  They recognized her from her early joke.  When we get to our stop, I’m still dumbfounded as I wave goodbye and jump of the Trolley.

Me  “Can you believe that?”
Mere  “That’s pretty fucking crazy.”
Me  “That was a text book example of one of those ‘It’s a small world’ scenarios.”
Mere  “What was her name?”
Me  “Ah fuck!”
Mere  “You’re an idiot.”

Yup, I definitely forgot to ask her what her name was.  Even after consorting with Bernd and Big C, to this day I still have no idea.  Oh well, if you ever read this Trolley Girl, find a way to clear this up.  Moving on.

Day 3 – 12:00pm

As mentioned, it is cold and I am dressed like a Florida boy.  This was actually done on purpose, I wanted to force myself to buy a sweater which I could keep as a souvenir.  Since The Wharf is the tourist area, finding souvenirs is like finding herpes in a sorority house.  We stumble from shop to shop, looking for the best deal (least angry Chinese salesperson).  I also never really associated San Fran with Alcatraz.  Apparently I never paid much attention in any Geography class.  Regardless, lots of these shops sell “Alcatraz Inmate Onesies” (google a picture, it’s hilarious).  As funny as these are, I’m in the market for a sweater.  Mere, not wanting to be left out of the equation, also decides to purchase a sweater.  After a lot of haggling and negotiating, we each grab one for 20 bucks.  Also, I didn’t want people to think we were tourists, so I did my best to find something that would help us blend in with the locals.

Day 3 – 12:30pm

We are looking for an Irish coffee place called Buena Vista that my mom had recommended via previous informative email.  Mere’s nose picks up the scent of funnel cake and she leads us towards Pier 39.  On the way, we admire Alcatraz and are then suddenly stopped by a Passing Mother.

Passing Mother  “Oh my Gosh!  Those sweaters are adorable!”
Me  “Yeah, we’re from here, all the locals are wearing them.”
Passing Mother  “Where did you get them?”
Me (I give a vague point) “That way, all the stores have them.”

I see that Passing Mother is with family (Husband, Daughter, and Son).  She seems to be the only one who’s amused.  I have a brief flashback to my past family vacations, it’s the exact same unfortunate scenario.  The Dad, who stands there thinking “dear God why did I ever suggest a fucking vacation?”  The Daughter, whose eyes wander, looking for stores that sell the same overpriced designer clothing that she is already wearing.  And then finally the Son, who’s high as a kite and can’t wait for this to be over so he can fly back home and continue to get drunk with his underage friends.  Finally I snap back to reality and continue on with Mere.  Oh to be 16 again, what an age.

Day 3 – 12:45pm

In our search for coffee, the overwhelming scent of fried dough has lead Mere, followed by myself, to Pier 39.  Pier 39 is basically a permanent carnival, on steroids.  It has several clothing shops and eateries, but it’s also very family friends.  This place sucks, we turn around immediately.  Still in search of Irish coffee, hunger begins to set in, primarily for Mere.  I see someone pass us, carrying a Hooter’s bag.  If we can find the Hooters before Buena Vista, I’m game.  Low and behold, the Hooters’ beacon calls us in.  Being from Clearwater, “Home of the Original Hooters” is really our only claim to fame (that, and the Hogan family train wreck).  As we enter, it’s now time to play what I like to call the “Hooters Lottery”.  The place has no customers, but is ridiculously overstaffed.  There are about 4 very good looking (mentally broken) servers by the door.

Fembot #1  “Seat yourself.”
Me  “Any particular section?”
Fembot #1  “Anywhere you want.”

Ok, I’m trying to figure out who’s working in what section, but since everyone is just gathered by the door gossiping and not actually working, this is hard to do.  So here comes the lottery, Mere and I sit at a bar top adjacent to the bar, who will we get?  Let’s find out.  With my eyes closed and fingers crossed, I hear a voice.

Voice  “Hi, I’m Nicole.”

I open my eyes.  We have lost the Hooters Lottery.

Me (disappointed) “Hi Nicole.”
Nicole (complete with blank stare) “Hi.”

If the Hooters Lottery was a scratch off, Nicole would not even be a Free Ticket.  I’m not sure how she got grandfathered into the system, but I’d rather see Mere in those shorts (yes, I went there).  Maybe instead of the orange spandex shorts, she could have tried on some cargos, or perhaps a pair of parachute pants.  Her upper body was even worse, and her face, well it was nothing short of disastrous.  Now I know what you are thinking, “Wow, you’re mean!”  Usually I’m not this bad (publicly), but much of my tone comes from after having to sit through an hour of her so-called “service”.  Over the next hour, she stopped by our table once.

Nicole  “Oh, hey?!”

As if we were old friends that she had just happened to run into.

Me  “Please just go away.”

The bathrooms were flooded, so when nature called, we were guided outside via caution tape to a public restroom in the area.  It was just a shitshow.  As Mere set up her new phone, I just held the insults and laughter to myself and looked around aimlessly.  The Bartendress was of course pregnant.  This is no joke.  I tried to get a good picture of it, but nothing respectable came out.  Any Hooter’s frequenter is well aware that the Bartendresses or Bartendri if you will, are typically pregnant.  We couldn’t get through this experience fast enough.  All the girls were drawing on each other’s shirts.  Nicole had the word “slut” drawn all over her shirt (yeah, this is definitely a family restaurant).  The creepy GM was trading BJs for weekend shifts, and the rest of the scrubs had plenty of body bruises to match their running Mascara.  It is definitely time to go.  I have to ask another waitress to bring us our check.  For some reason, we didn’t just walk out without paying, but we did leave a substantially insulting tip, so I’m ok with that.  On the check, I wrote plain and simple…

You were not good.

Day 3 – 2:00pm

Finally back outside, it no longer smells like GED and failure.  Although we had a few beers there, I’m now in need of something with liquor.  I ask a random person where to find this elusive Irish coffee place, and he somehow manages to give me pinpoint directions.  About a 5 minutes later and we have made it!  The Buena Vista, a San Fran landmark.  Upon entry, the Bartender speaks up.

Bartender  “Is this some sort of a dare or something?”
Me  “What are you talking about?”

He is talking about our matching sweaters.

Me  “Ah, nice burn.”
Bartender  “Yeah, that’s about all I got.”

Bartender is sad and funny at the same time.  We order 2 Irish coffees as he gives us a brief history of the place.  Apparently this is the first joint that ever served Irish coffee anywhere in the states.  Whether this is officially documented or can be factually proven, doubtful.  A quick note, I noticed they filled all the glasses with hot water to warm them up before serving.  I don’t know why I found this so interesting.  After using the bathroom, which had some very detailed pornographic sketches on the wall (attempting to take a picture, I realize my disposable full), we go to check out the “beach”.  The Buena Vista was on Beach Street, so we only had to walk about 30 yards.  The “beach” is about 3 feet of sand that rests right before the frigid bay water.  From this location, we take a look at the Danny Tanner bridge (Golden Gate), one last look at Alcatraz, and prepare to trek it back to Mere’s place.

Day 3 – 3:30pm

The walk back takes forever, not to mention the whole route was uphill.  We did see one very demonic illustration of the Verizon Guy (sorry, Mere lost the picture).  I’m trying to piece together my game plan for the next several hours, since I will once again be alone because Mere has to go to work.  Also, I would like to exercise, not to mention take a shower.  The solution to both of these problems, find a local gym and scam some sort of guest pass.  Since clearly Mere is not a supporter, much less a member, of any fitness facility, this task is a lot easier said than done.  After searching the internet (somehow I found a connection in the dungeon), I call up a place within walking distance called Club One.  I lie about how I just moved here and would love to “test” out the facility.  I tell the lady I want to go swimming and she reserves me a lap time (this is new to me, but I guess the pool is busy so they regulate it).  I grab my swimming attire, clean clothes (for post-shower), the spare keys, and then I head out the door.

Day 3 – 5:00pm

I get to Club One and walk in the door.  As usual, I am dressed like a homeless person, so it’s harder to make it believable that I could in fact afford a membership to this gym.  I talk to the lady at the front desk, who is the same person I had talked to on the phone.  I can’t remember her name, but she looks like a Donna.

Donna  “Hello, can I help you?”
Me  “Yeah, I talked to you on the phone a little bit ago, I’m a new San Fran resident.”
Donna (looks at me like I’m homeless) “Oh, ok.  Here, I need you to fill this out.”

She hands me a clipboard and I jot down a bunch of fake information.  Also, she gives me a locker key in exchange for my drivers license.  She points me in the direction of the locker room and asks me one last thing.

Donna  “Do you have a swim cap, it’s mandatory.”

Up until this point, Donna had potential for being mistaken as intelligent.  At the time of this trip, I had long hair, about down to my shoulders.  If you have ever swam laps in a pool with hair this length and without a swim cap, you are probably dead from affixiating on your own hair.  I bite my tongue and answer the question as sheepishly as possible.

Me  “Yes.”

Once I change and get into the pool, I realize even with my “reserved lane” that it is way too crowded (even with only 6 occupants).  2 people per lane is generally not a bad number, unless of course the lanes are abnormally thin (which they are).  Also, I have been fortunate enough to be placed in a lane with a man who is wearing a flesh-colored bathing suit (I pray) and a snorkel.  It’s also the type of lap pool that’s shallow on one side and deep on the other.  As I swim towards the deep end, it is unusually dark.  The light on that side of the pool is either broken or not turned on.  Allow me digress for just a moment.  As a child, I was never much a fan of the deep end, and this still holds true.  For some reason, that part of the pool was always darker, scarier, and well, deeper.  I was often sent to the deep end to retrieve the pool basketball because “[I] touched it last”.  So I look back at my friends as they splash around safely in the well lit shallow end, and all I can see in front of me is darkness and the oversized shark raft which now lurks in the deep end.  I would close my eyes and swim as fast as possible, grab the ball and launch it back towards my “friends”, and then dart back to safety as my imagination tells me that the hungry shark raft is right on my heels.  Bottom line, the deep end is not for me.  After about 50 or so laps in this scary ass swamp pool, I get out and hit the showers.  Seeing as how San Fran is still part of California, the restroom has all these hippie signs about saving water and limiting your shower time.  This was my first shower of the trip, I spent 30 minutes in there, and when I was done, I just let the water run.  After cleaning up and getting dressed, I get my ID back from Donna and head back out to the now cold streets.  I want to find a camera so I can continue taking pictures for the remainder of the trip.

Day 3 – 6:30pm

On the way back to Mere’s, I decide to drop into a nearby Walgreens and look for some sort of camera.  They had disposable ones like I had just bought, but they were expensive.  I saw a reusable mini digital camera for 10 dollars.  Why I thought this to be a wise investment, I do not know.  It was not.  I buy the camera and spend about 10 minutes ripping apart the idiot-proof packaging.  For the rest of the night, the picture(s) quality is not exactly top notch.  Once back at the dungeon, I drink a few beers and pack up my bag.  I’m one of those compulsive people that needs to have my gear ready to go so that in the morning all I have to do is jump up and drag my haggard ass out the door and to my car.  When the packing is finished, I grab a road beer and start the sure-to-be long trek towards Mamacita.  On the way there, as expected, it’s cold and hilly.  On a lighter note, the city is very well lit and does offer awesome views (sorry, shitty camera).  When I stop to relieve myself on someone’s doorstep, I hear a dog bark and see the house lights go on, so I scurry down the street leaving a trail of urine behind me (not to mention down my leg).

Day 3 – 9:00pm

When I get to the restaurant, it is almost completely empty.  Apparently this is very unusual for a Sunday night.  It’s probably due to all the lazy (hungover) people from 4^th of July.  I see Mere, make a fat joke, and then grab a seat at the bar.  The Bartendress is texting away like a maniac, but she takes a break to get me Modelo Negro.

Bartendress  “Do you want anything to eat?”
Me (starving) “No thanks, I’m not that hungry.”

Allow me to digress for just a moment.  A couple days ago, Mere had told me about “Family Meal”, where at the end of every night, the staff and guests (me) are allowed to eat for free at a buffet-style setup which includes the majority of the items on the menu.  I can control my hunger for another hour or so, and spend my food money on more beer.

Bartendress  “You sure?”
Me  “Yeah, I’m full.”

Day 3 – 10:00pm

1 Modelo and 3 Tecates later, and the place is ready to close.  The Bartendress only charges me for 1 Tecate, I like her.

Bartendress  “Hey, if you’re finally hungry, they are doing family meal.”
Me  “Family meal?  What’s that?”

She continues with a detailed explanation as I stare at her chest and nod along.  I leave my stool and head over to the table with all the employees, and more importantly, all the food.  At first, I play the roll of the timid and grateful guest, minutes later I have food all over my face and chest as I high-five the cook and attempt to speak to him in his native tongue.  Sadly, like most people, I only know the curse words.  After shoveling down the food, the employees start to clean up and I pretend to help.

Me  “Where does this go?”
Employee #1  “Don’t worry about it, I got it.”
Me  “Wow, you’re too nice.”

Mere has to fold napkins before she can leave.  There’s always one mind-numbing, kick in the crotch piece of sidework that just blows.  Back in my restaurant days, just as I would be walking out the door and sparking a bowl, I’d get called back in to “roll the forks”.  I would then explain how “it is a waste of resources since the [customer] only disposes of the rolled napkin anyways”.  Unfortunately, this was a 3-year long battle which I would never win.  Mere, Kevin (from Day 1), and Beauty (this is actually her name) fold napkins as I watch.

Me  “Wow, that looks like fun.”
Mere  “I hate you.”

Kevin starts to ask me about the pros and cons of my visit thus far.

Me  “It’s been fun.  Although today I had to shower at a gym because Mere’s shower is on the fritz.”
Kevin  “That’s weird.”
Mere  “Yeah, yesterday I washed his hair, it was funny.”

Somehow this reminds Beauty of a funny story.  She used to date a guy with long hair.  As all girls know, and any long-haired hippie dude (myself included), sometimes it’s a hassle to wash your hair and wait for it to dry (I will never use a blow dryer.  I am rugged, not gay).  She said that one time she walked in on her boyfriend showering with a beanie on.  Take a moment to laugh.  Not a shower cap or anything of that sort, but a Burton beanie.  Apparently he was a bit of a simpleton.  Needless to say, they are no longer together.  Somehow talks of showering prompt Mere to throw out some smart dialogue.

Mere  “I haven’t showered in 3 days.”
Kevin  “What?”
Mere  “Nothing, never mind.”
Me  “She said she hasn’t showered in 3 days.”

Mere grills me.

Beauty  “Really?”
Kevin  “That’s kinda gross.  I shower like 3 times a day.”
Me  “Me too, what a freak.”

Mere kicks me.

Mere  “What, it’s a pain in the ass to shower at my place.  Plus this asshole (me) has been staying over.”
Me  “That’s no excuse, I would gladly leave for 15 minutes for you to bathe.”

Mere pours kerosene on me and sets me on fire.

Mere  “I’m showering right when I get home, relax.”
Me  “Thank God, you do not smell good.”

Mere takes aim at my already flaming torso and shoots out both my knees.

Me  “Are you guys done yet?  Let drink.”

After finishing up, we head outside.  There’s about 5 or so employees left as they lock the front door, but apparently Kevin is the only one who’s not afraid of a good time.  It’s a Sunday night after the 4^th of July, so the streets are not exactly running red with blood.  We follow Kevin to a nearby watering hole.  On the way, we pass a group of Swedish Dudes on vacation.  They talk funny.

Swedish Dude #1  “Hey.”
Me  “Sorry, no change.”
Swedish Dude #1  “Huh?”

They continue to make small talk.  The Swedish Dudes are asking where to find chicks.  I offer them Mere, they say no.  Kevin tells them to check out Castro, but apparently they have been fooled by this before.  Finally, after what seems to be an eternity, we point them one way and walk another.

Day 3 – 11:30pm

I don’t remember the name of the bar we went to, but it was empty, which was fine with me.  There’s beer, a pool table, and plenty of Tequila.  What starts out as one of those “we’re just gonna take it easy” nights, quickly turns into a “wait, how come I can only keep one of my eyes open and can’t remember my name” nights.  Like I said, this new camera is shitty, but it’s still clear enough to show that Kevin is Asian.  The clarity of these pictures is a lot like the clarity of my brain as we get deeper into the night.  The bartender is a nice enough guy, and he would have definitely been categorized as a washed-up comedian if he had only been successful in the first place (you know the type, basically I see my future before me).  We are on round 4 of Tequila and pints when I decide to share my thoughts with Kevin.

Me  “Where the fuck is Danny Tanner?!?”
Kevin  “Probably fucking Mrs. Doubtfire.”

Wow, I really like this kid.  How could I have forgotten about Mrs. Doubtfire?  San Fran’s only other Superhero.  After more conversing, Kevin comes clean about being 31.  He tells me about how he went to UCSB (Santa Barbara) and continues to go on and on about an area called Isla Vista.  Apparently it’s a 1 square mile area of only college housing which is located right on the beach.  Seeing as how I have to drive through Santa Barbara tomorrow, I find this information useful.  After about 5 more games of pool, a few more shots and another pint, the bar is closing up.  Just when I think life is great and things can’t get any better, I find out it’s a cash only bar.  Oh darn, I don’t have any cash on me.

Me  “Oh darn, I don’t have any cash on me.”
Mere  “I’ll cover you.”

Sometimes God just favors certain people.  After Mere and Kevin split the tab, we take back to the streets.  Mere and I say farewell to Kevin, and then proceed to stand in the middle of the road until a cab stops for us (yes, the Tequila has taken its toll).  During the cab ride back, I am disgruntled (drunk) and depressed (retarded).  What had I really accomplished on this trip thus far?  Nothing.  Moments later, I realize that I am more than ok with this and I smile once again.

Day 4 – 2:15am

Back at Mere’s, I search for her digital camera (which I couldn’t find previously).  I will be using this for the trip home, during which I will stop at Big Sur (a huge scenic/hippie area) on the way home.  After I find it, I set it on top of my already packed bag and collapse on her bed.  Mere does stick by her pledge to shower this evening.

Mere  “Don’t look.”
Me  “Ew.”

Moments later, I’m out cold.

Day 4 – 8:30am

I pop up refreshed and ready to rock with no real idea as to what has happened over the past 3 days.  I throw on last night’s clothes and grab my bag.  With Mere still fully asleep, I say goodbye and toss the spare keys on her counter as I exit.  Once outside, I hail a cab to take me to my car (which hasn’t moved in 3 days).  I notice that I am in cab #512.  This is one of my “things”.  For some reason, I see this number everywhere.  Especially ever since I first noticed it, now it always sticks out.  Hell, it’s even on one of the skittles we used to enjoy in times of pain, and not to mention it’s the first 3 digits of my phone number.  We drive passed a hot girl.

Me and Cabbie  “Whoa.”

Once at my car, I’m surprised to see that I do not have a ticket.  I throw my bag in, fire up the GPS, and get ready to hit up Big Sur.  Before I put the car in drive, I catch my breath and my thoughts, and take a moment to reflect.  Not a shabby vaca so far.  San Francisco gets the Dumbass Seal of Approval as a cool place to visit.  We drank with some straights, some gays, and some bicurious (gays).  We sat at a bus stop and told people what we really thought of them via a 1 to 10 scale.  We met nefarious cab drivers and home-schooled bartenders.  We even partied on God’s day (Sunday) while the weak were “recovering”.  Now it’s time to head home, but I do have a couple options.  I can snap some pictures in Big Sur and make it back to Venice in time for dinner, or I can sit in a river and drink with hippies, possibly stop in Santa Barbara for the night and shack up at a motel 6,certainly invite myself to a random party, easily get lifted to the point where I am unable to give a cab driver directions, subsequently become so hungry that I attempt to feed a 5 dollar bill into a vending machine, and predcitably wake up fully clothed in attire I have never seen before.  Let’s just say I’ll probably choose the latter, and that my friends, is a completely different story, which of course I’ll share with you.

The San Fran Chronicles

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Day 2 – 2:45pm

If there is one thing I do well, it’s insulting other people.  Ugly boring people may say it’s so I feel better about myself, this is not the case.  Actually it’s so said victim(s) feel(s) worse about his or herself, that is all.  The team is now 6 deep, and attracting a crowd.  I have been given an 8.0.  This number can be used as an 8, a 0, a 0.8, or an 80.  With the exception of bum lean-tos, I have never seen such versatility in cardboard.  A child walks by waving an American flag.

Number Dude #1  “10 for patriotism.”

The kid is wandering the busy festival streets alone.

Me  “0.8 for bad parenting.  Will someone please claim their child before he becomes the property of Mexico.”

A lady walks by wearing red, white, and blue jeans.

Number Chick #1  “Holiday pants, 9!”

The lady has what we call a “muffin top”.

Me  “Dressing like she doesn’t know she’s [husky], 0.”

This is the tip of the iceberg, it’s probably best that I can’t remember most of the things I said, because I’m told that it gets foul.  Mere runs to the neighboring store and picks up a couple of 40s.  Drinking 40s at a bus stop, if this isn’t living the dream, I don’t know what is.  People are now stopping in front of us, waiting for a rating. The official term for such behavior is “Fishing”.  This is unacceptable to the team, and we begin to “boo” them until they pass.

Number Chick #2  “Fishing.  2!”
Me  “Move along hippie.”

A hot girl wearing jean shorts and an American flag bathing suit top walks by.

Number Dude #1  “10!”
Number Chick #1  “9!”
Number Chick #2  “8!”
Number Chick #3  “8!”
Me  “Dibs!”

Several other misfits stroll passed, and then I notice an odd scenario to my left.  2 grandmas appear to have been left “unattended” by their families.

Me  “Unattended Elderly, 0.8!”

This is unacceptable family behavior.  You cannot turn the parade streets into an old lady parking lot.  I walk over to them for further investigation.  Originally I give them an 8.0 for sportsmanship, but after picking up on some old lady attitude, I lower the score.  In their defense, they were unable to walk and abandoned by loved ones, I would have been a bit grumpy myself.  Just when life is sweet, a haunting image draws near.  Holy smokes, it’s Gary and Ace!  I try to put the number over my face to avoid being recognized, it does not work.

Gary  “Hey!  You guys!  Wooooo!”

Predictably, Gary and Ace can’t handle their booze, thus hopefully they will be easy to fool.  And it’s also no surprise that these two were “Fishers”.

Ace  “What are you guys doing?”
Me  “Nothing, no fun to be had here, move along.”

After insisting we rate them, I do (it was suppose to be a 0.8).  Finally, they take off as Mere and I exhale giant sighs of relief.  After finishing another 40, witnessing Sweet Hat Lady, and dishing out more verbal abuse, we decide it’s time to move on.  But first, Mere decides to be smart.  She drops my camera while attempting to take a picture.  Apparently Mere handles her booze no better than Gary or Ace.  I buy a disposable camera to hold me over until my camera fixes itself.

Day 2 – 4:30pm

As previously discussed, San Francisco is a city made up of many districts.  The Haight-Ashbury district used to be hippie central back in the 60s.  Nowadays, the real hippies have been replaced by posers, acid-crazed bums, and middle schoolers puffing away on oregano.  Obviously, we need to visit this district.  We hop on a bus headed that way, and after passing the street, we have to get on another bus to backtrack.  Mere, in her infinite wisdom, looks to me as if I was supposed to know when to get off the bus.

Me  “I don’t live here.”

We make it to Haight Street, and it just reeks of weed, urine, and unemployment.  I’m not sure whether it was the vomit on the streets or the stench of failure in the air, but something reminded me that I was hungry.  Mere and I stumble into a restaurant called Martin Mack’s.  All I have to say about this place is give it a try if you want terrible food topped with shitty service.  Once I finish drinking my chowder, we hustle the streets looking for some acid.  Not sure whether or not I plan on dropping it, it’s still fun to ask the Crazies for drugs.

After popping into a few shops and blatantly asking their respective clerks for drugs, I’m pointed in the direction of the park (always a safe place to score drugs).  On the way to the park, I run into a couple soccer hooligans.  Once we reach the park, a passing teenager offers me shrooms.  This didn’t take long.  The last time I bought hallucinogens from a 15 year old, I was 14.  I said no, reminded him to stay in school, and continued journeying through the park.  Having lost every short term urge to trip out, I decide just to climb a tree (which I later found out was the infamous Joplin Tree) and make fun of the hippies.  I notice a “drum circle” in the distance.  I use this term loosely, because if you really want to see a drum circle, come to my hood, Venice.

Day 2 – 6:30pm

Fearing sobriety and a bad time, we find it appropriate to head back to Mere’s place and regroup.  After spending way too much time trying to hail a cab, we finally get one and make it back.  This is a very crucial time in the day of a partyer.  You can “take a nap” and regain focus for the rest of the evening, or you can be a champion and just continue on drinking.  Clearly, I choose the latter, and force Mere to accompany me.  At this point, I could really use a shower, but seeing as how it is an incredible hassle, Mere washing my hair for me should suffice.  I grab a beer out of her fridge and am ready to find a new bar.  Apparently, Mere does have 1 more friend in the city.  She calls us, recommends a place, and we meet her and her boyfriend there.

Day 2 – 8:30pm

This bar has that cookie cutter ritzy look.  By that I mean the lights are dim and the drinks are overpriced.  It has a small downstairs with an indoor wrap around balcony upstairs.  The bartender is hot, so obviously Mere immediately dislikes her.

Scientist Bartendress  “What can I get ya’ll?”
Me  “Not sure yet.  What’s your name?”
Scientist Bartendress  “Emily.”

I’m guessing with 3 “I’s”, you know the type.

Me  “So, what are the specials?”
Emiliii  “Specials?”

Enough said.  We get a round of random drinks and take a moment to sit back and observe the crowd.  I see 1 attractive chick, something I haven’t seen too many of in San Fran.  Clearly, she’s surrounded by a herd of herbs (3 guys with matching tribal band tattoos).  Behind us are the restrooms.  Just as I look behind me, I see an older gentleman and his equally aged spouse enter the bathroom together.  Way to go sir, way to go.  Mere orders a round of shots from Emiliii.  She pours us a bunch of fruity red shots which she “claims” to have invented.  I’m willing to bet my reputation and left nut that it was a Washington Apple (Crown, Apple Pucker, Cran, and 7UP).  Another shot and 2 pints later, I realize that Older Gentleman and His Lady have yet to exit the restroom.  With a line now forming, it’s been a solid 30 minutes.  Finally, they both immerge.  I have already alerted everyone in line as to what is probably taking place, so as he steps out, he receives a huge applause.  His Lady walks out shamefully behind him with a bright red face, Older Gentleman waves his hands victoriously in the air.  Mere throws him a high five as he passes us.

Me  “Still got it huh?”
Older Gentleman  “I invented it.”

This man is my hero. He is the man ordering a drink, next to the lady in green.  Once I figure out how to better use the internet, all the pictures will include necessary, and unnecessary, captions.  Our new 4some gets chopped in half.  The lovely couple has to work in the morning, such a foreign concept to me.  Mere texts a few fellow employees to see if we can find new people to make fun of, success!  So drunk again for the 2^nd time in 12 hours, we hop in a cab and head towards a bar called Silver Cloud.

Day 2 – 11:00pm

Cabs, something with which I am still not yet comfortable.  Why the majority (all) of drivers are either a bit crazy or just completely insane is unbeknownst to me.  What’s even more fascinating is how we blindly trust their ability to operate a motor vehicle, especially since most of them drive like they just took an 8ball to the head (hell, most probably just did).  Regardless, our driver that has arrived is indeed one of the craziest I have ever met, but at least in a laid back benign kind of way.  I will try and recreate the parts of his insanity that he let ramble out of his mouth.  He sounded like someone from the Jersey Shore that had just unknowingly ingested large amounts of animal tranquilizer.

Crazy McCabbie  “Where to?”
Mere  “Silver Cloud over in Marina.”
Crazy McCabbie  “Where’s that?”
Me  “Aren’t you suppose to know that?”
Crazy  McCabbie  “Oh yeah, never mind.”
Me  “Wait what?”
Crazy McCabbie  “I got it.”
Mere  “It’s on Lombard.”
Crazy  McCabbie  “Gotcha.”

Now it starts to get interesting.  This part of the conversation is all true, I just wish I remembered all of it.

Crazy  McCabbie  “So you guys having a good time?”
Me  “Yeah, we’re going to meet up with Danny Tanner.”
Crazy  McCabbie  “Oh yeah, nice.”
Me  “Yeah, do you know him?”
Crazy  McCabbie  “Yeah, he’s a good guy.  I drove him earlier.”
Me  “Wait what?  Sir, you drove Danny Tanner from Full House earlier?”
Crazy  McCabbie  “Yeah for sure, elephants can eat hotdog buns faster than humans.”
Me  “What did you just say?”
Crazy McCabbie  “Yep, elephants won, humans were 2^nd.”
Me (whispering to Mere) “Let’s get the fuck out of here, this guy’s off his meds!”

Mere is unable to speak with me because she is laughing hysterically.  I try to turn my fear into laughter, so I decide to fight crazy with crazy.

Me  “Yeah, I bet I could eat more hotdog buns than an elephant.”
Crazy McCabbie  “I had to stop someone from killing a cat.”

Clearly it will not be possible to “one-up” his level of craziness.  Mere continues to choke with laughter.

Me  “Do tell?”
Crazy McCabbie  “I’m a cat person.”
Me  “Understandably, so who killed one?”
Crazy McCabbie  “What?”

Dear God.

Me  “You were saying you saved a cat?”
Crazy McCabbie  “Oh yeah, I saw this guy try and kick a cat, but he didn’t.”
Me  “I’m not sure that’s the same thing as preventing a feline homicide?”
Crazy McCabbie  “Yeah, cats.”

This cab ride was about 15 minutes, unfortunately (fortunately) this is about all I can remember.  We realize that the bar is really close to Steph’s place, so we have Crazy McCabbie drop us off at that corner so I can make sure my car is still there.  I give him an abnormally large tip because he was very entertaining.  Allow me to digress for just a moment.  Honestly, this conversation was not made up.  It was so oddly hilarious that I found the need to google it several weeks later.  I found this which had me laughing my ass off.  If you have an extra minute, read the short article, it’s hilarious.  Also, notice the date in the URL, go fucking figure!  Apparently Crazy McCabbie, not completely crazy.

Day 2 – 11:30pm

Crazy McCabbie has given me a new found energy.  I was already drunk and feeling good, but now I’m on cloud nine as we walk into Silver Cloud (pun intended).  After opening the front door and without even setting foot inside the bar, it’s obvious that we have found ourselves some karaoke!  Furthermore, people seem to be dressed in costumes which are unrelated to the 4^th.  We walk up to the bar, grabbing 2 shots and 2 pints.  Despite the rockin’ karaoke, the bar is relatively slow.  I follow Mere on her quest to find work people.  This didn’t take long, they are all outside in the smoking section.  Not really knowing these people and hoping to black out for the second time in one day, I borrow Mere’s credit card and head to the bar.  The bartender is nothing like Emiliii.  She is very cool and actually good at her job (ugly and needs to make up for it somehow).  I introduce her to a game called “Beat the Bartender” I often play when I’m drunk and don’t feel like making any friends.  Basically, she pours your drink, you give her cash or your card (tell her to close it if you use a card), and by the time she returns with your change and/or receipt, you have already finished the drink and are ready to order another one.  Do this with shots, and it’s not too insulting, but do it with pints and then constantly tell her to “close your tab” after each chugging, and I assure you that you will not be making any friends.  I did not make this game up, I actually heard about it back in High School from someone who must have been a terribly miserable drunk, I guess now I am no better.  After I chug 2 pints and order a third (sorry Mere’s credit card), she address the situation.

Anti-Emiliii or “Aunty Em” if you will  “Should I just leave it open?”
Me  “No, I’m feeling full.”
Aunty Em  “You sure?”
Me  “Yeah, just close me out please.”

She turns her back, I chug my 3^rd pint.  She returns with my 3^rd receipt.

Me  “On second thought, I could use 1 more.”
Aunty Em  “Are you fucking with me?”
Me  “Yes, I am.”
Aunty Em  “So you don’t want the pint?”
Me  “No, I do.”

I’m feeling a little guilty (very drunk) so I decide to make up for it with Mere’s credit card.

Me  “Last time, I swear.  You want a shot?”
Aunty Em (confused) “Uh sure?”
Me  “Ok, well let me get 1 last pint and 2 shots, you pick!”
Aunty Em  “Close it out?”
Me  “Yeah, last time, I swear.”

Did I also mention that “Beat the Bartender” fucks you up?  Aunty Em returns with my beer and 2 shots.  I sign the 4^th and final check and am about to make amends with my Bartendress.  Just then, Mere’s GM walks into the bar.

Me  “HEY!  Want a shot?”
GM  “Sure.”

I grab Aunty Em’s shot and toss it to my new friend.

Me  “Sorry toots.”

Needless to say, I’m no longer allowed to order from the bar.  This is probably best considering I just slammed 3 pints in 3 minutes, as well as a shot, and I’m working on my 4^th pint.  Oh yeah, and not to mention I already had a round with Mere and was drunk when I got here, some might say I have a bit of a high tolerance (drinking problem).  Now that I have warmed up my vocal cords, it’s time to sing some karaoke.  My dreams of superstardom are shutdown when the “DJ” informs me that they are wrapping up the karaoke and already have the rest of the night’s line up.  Oh well, I can still stand alone on the dance floor and spin around like a moron.  Due to The King of Pop’s passing, almost every song is a Michael Jackson hit.  He is one kid petter that will be missed.  I dance around like a crazed fan as two sauced-up cougars unsuccessfully try their best not to butcher Billie Jean.

Day 3 – 12:45am

After I begin to sweat, either from high levels of alcohol consumption or from having too good a time on the dance floor, I head back outside and relocate Mere.  She’s still chatting it up with some workers.  As I walk outside, one of the waitresses closes the sliding glass door behind me.  I reopen it so we can still hear the music.  Several minutes pass by, and she closes it again.  This time, another person outside, I believe it was GM, opens it back up.  We are all about making friends.  This time, the waitress gives us an evil glare from her meth-scratched face, and slams it shut.  It is time to leave.  I head to the restroom and make sure to whiz on everything that looks like it has just been cleaned, and then I meet everyone outside.  As everyone splits in their respective directions, I look to Mere.

Me  “Food?”
Mere  “Obviously.”

Day 3 – 1:30am

Low and behold, only seconds away, we discover a Johnny Rockets.  This is sure to feel good tomorrow.  We sit at the bar, which doesn’t sell alcohol (I asked repeatedly), and order something I finish in seconds.  Our server was like someone out of the movie Pleasantville.  He was pimple-faced and happy.  He later confirmed that he does in fact smoke a lot of weed.  Mere does not finish all her food, but instead of throwing in the towel, she insists on bringing the two remaining deep-fried whatevers home to finish this evening (morning).  I make a joke about how the next time I visit, I hope she doesn’t look like an Oompa-Loompa.  She does not laugh.  We head outside and again have trouble finding a cab.  A man driving one of those celebrity-style town cars offers us a ride.

Me  “How much?”
Dumbass  “20 bucks.”
Mere  “That’s fucking stupid.”
Dumbass  “It’s a limo.”
Mere  “No it’s not, it’s a car.”
Me  “We only have 10 bucks?”
Dumbass  “Done.”

Day 3 – 2:30am

As Dumbass is driving us home, I’m searching my pockets for cash.  Mere has none.  I find a 20 dollar bill and 7 singles.  Clearly this man will not be getting the 20 dollar bill.  That’s always the most awkward thing about bartering.  When you tell someone you only have a certain amount, and then you give them a larger amount and ask for change.  Oh well, who gives a fuck.  We get to Mere’s place.

Me  “Do you have change for a 20?”
Dumbass (lying) “No.”
Me  “Well all I have is a 20 and 7 singles.”
Dumbass  “I don’t have change.”

How does a cab driver, excuse me, “limo driver”, not have change?

Me  “Are you sure you don’t want to check again for change?”

He sticks to his guns.

Dumbass  “Don’t have any.”
Me  “You realize if you break your lie now, you will be shamed, but you will also be getting 10 dollars instead of 7?”
Dumbass  “Yes, I realize this.  7 dollars is fine.”

I’m not sure if this guy is incredibly proud or incredibly stupid, regardless, I give him the 7 singles and hop out.  Once inside the dungeon, it is only a matter of seconds before I pass out.  With only 1 day left, my goal of finding Danny Tanner is starting to feel more like a pipe dream.  My 2^nd goal for tomorrow is to find a place to shower, which I do miraculously attain through a string of alcohol induced lies.

CONTINUE ON TO PART 5 (FINALE)

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