The Streets of San Francisco

So I spent the afternoon cruising the streets of San Francisco with my buddy Eric who's part-owner of what turned out to be a MIGHTY sweet art gallery right in the center of downtown S.F.  No shit, this place had some very amazing art from a local graffiti artist, Doze Green, (though it wasn't graffiti at all), and even the most discriminating boozer would have been impressed to find Chimay (arguably the finest beer in the world) not only in bottles but also ON TAP there.

Almost the very second I felt a buzz coming on, I called a buddy of mine (more accurately put, a friend of my good friend, Mark) who lives in San Fran to invite him to the gallery.  He already had a decent beer buzz when he arrived and felt kind of stupid when he realized that all of our booze for the night was on the house. Of course, a couple free top-shelf drinks quickly took his mind off that regret.

After a while of hanging out at the gallery drinking fine drinks on the house, Randy and I got it in our heads to go stomping through the streets of San Fran in search of an all-night adventure.  We didn't get too far before we realized that we would need to grab something to eat if we really wanted the evening to last until the morning.  We headed up one street and down another, and I started to wonder if Randy really knew where he was going when we landed at some Italian joint that Randy clearly frequented often.  My damage: three slices of pepperoni and a Budweiser.  Randy's damage: one slice of pepperoni and three beers (two there and one to go by way of cargo pant pocket).

Up the street, we stopped into the local adult toy shop because that seemed to be the thing to do in that area.  After several minutes of chuckling at vid names like "Backdoor to Buttsville - Part 2" and "Very Dirty Dancing", we walked out of the store, and Randy suddenly remembered that he had stowed a beer in his pants.  Before you could possibly say "no booze allowed on public sidewalks", a cop on the sidewalk-beat snatched that Budweiser right out of his hand (seriously, it was so quick that for a moment Randy's empty hand looked like the plastic hand of a G.I. Joe that's supposed to be holding a plastic M-16 assault rifle) and threatened a ticket.  I just figured that Randy would chalk off the beer as a lost buck seventy-five and look for the nearest refueling station, but Randy seemed to have a higher calling.  Long story short (if that's possible at this point), one cop turned into two, and two turned into four, and four turned into eight plus a paddywaggon drive to the drunk tank for Randy.  Where was I the whole time?  Standing about five feet away holding up my cell phone so Mark, our mutual friend, could hear the whole confrontation and get a laugh or two.

After I hung up the phone with Mark, I suddenly realized my predicament.  I was standing in a strange part of San Francisco... drunk... miles away from the gallery.  I walked about a half a block in what seemed to be the best direction to head when I spotted through a window a group of what were clearly jazz musicians performing at full throttle.  I ducked inside.  (No cover charge.  I liked this place already.)  The front, center table was available.  I took it. (Really liked this place.)  It took about 30 seconds to get a cold Corona in my hand.  (FUCKING LOVED THIS PLACE!)  There were only about 20 to 25 other tables, and I sat there and wondered how such fabulous musicians could be playing in such a small venue so I ordered another beer and thought about that for a while.  After ordering and quickly drinking at least four more, I realized that I needed to relieve myself.  I stood up and walked to the front of the place where I assumed the bathroom was.  It wasn't there.  Hmmm.... had I put down a credit card for my drinks?  Nope.  Walked out the front door.  Free drinks and fabulous music made me forget all about that fucking asshole Randy who should have known better than to get hauled away and leave me alone in a strange city. I hoped that he was getting butt raped in jail!  (Mind you, these were personal thoughts, and I was really drunk at this point.)

It was getting pretty damned late and the BART had stopped running for the night.  No worries... one of my favorite things to do when I'm shitfaced and by myself is to sleep outside.  After walking at least two miles down some random street, it became pretty clear that I wasn't just going to happen across a bed of straw laying peacefully in the midst of a manger.  The area was mainly residential, but this was still the city after all.  So I sought out and quickly found the next best thing... a house - no, a fucking mansion - under construction (i.e. pre-drywall).  Getting in was a simple matter of hopping a 4-foot-tall piece of plywood.  It was as if nobody ever suspected that anyone would have the gall to invade the joint, and they never would have expected that the carefully-stacked sheets of insulation on the top floor would rival even the most luxurious of down comforters (OK, I was still really drunk). 

So that's pretty much my story.  Woke up the next morning, grabbed a taxi to the BART, arrived at Eric's house at about 9am and slept until 3pm.  Still don't know where Randy ended up and don't care to call and ask.  But I do suppose that I hope he didn't actually get butt raped.


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