Stitch on 31/8/2007 at 03:00
STITCHTTAKE: DAY THREE (Saturday)
Due to taking it relatively easy on the alcohol Thursday night--this is all a matter of comparison, mind you--Saturday dawned more gently than Friday. I was dressed and on the pavement by 9:30 or so, surveying the scene. Heavy pedestrian traffic was already beginning to develop and the sun was just starting to cut through the fog. A taxicab honked, steam poured out of a street grate(1), and a fat woman wearing lingerie and an open jacket walked by.
San Francisco.
A mere forty hours or so in and already I was beginning to feel a sense of comfort, a sense of unity with the city. I could be one of these people sipping coffee and going about their business. Hell, I
was.
Except for the coffee, so I bought a cup from a girl who told me she was a journalist major with plans of founding a magazine that combined fashion and technology.
"Good luck with your magazine," I said.
The plan was for me to meet the Starrfalls for breakfast, so at ten we joined up and cruised over to a diner that mostly managed a 50's theme, the glaring exception being a 70's horror movie poster which stuck out like Stitch at a Korean bar.
Breakfast was wonderful. I got the pleasure of getting to know GBM and Starrfall a little better in a slightly more intimate setting, and to top things off the table already had tabasco sauce next to the ketchup. I think all the tables in San Francisco have tabasco sauce on call next to the ketchup. You don't even have to ask.
Again, I could do this.
After breakfast we picked up Dave, split up for about an hour of personal shopping ($8 on H&M socks, baby), and then stormed the Aussies' hotel. Since today was the beginning of the meet proper the plan was to join up with MsLedd, Strangeblue, Fafhrdh, and DoctorFrog at 2:00 at the sea lion pile in Fisherman's Wharf. RBJ was too busy doing who knows what about town with his lady friend, so it was only the six of us that started heading in the general direction of Fisherman's Wharf at around noon.
Ten minutes or so into the walk Scots started roaring orgasmically and shouting a hyperpatriotic"fuck yeah!" every time he saw an American flag flapping in the wind, which was hysterical enough that before long Shug and I joined in. In fact, it was about this time that the in jokes really broke past the pimples and funny hair phase and developed a frightening life all their own. My habit of pumping my fist in the air and saying "yeah!" or "we're doin' it!" was adopted by everyone, growing in volume and ferocity until we resembled a pack of rabit howler monkeys punching the sky.
The walk to the Wharf was long and awesome(2), and at a compact Asian corner market I picked up an apple so good it could have packed the advent of sin. We walked, we talked, we saw a building with enough clothes hanging from fire escapes to double as an Old Navy for the gravity-impaired(3).
Fisherman's Wharf was really nothing like I remembered it: less bustling waterfront and more throngs of tourists. The sea lion platforms(4), cool as they were, struck me as vaguely Disneylandish, about as pure as a set of mannequins in a storefront display.
MsLedd and Strangeblue were stuck in traffic, but DoctorFrog and Farhvdh managed to find us, which probably wasn't too difficult as we had reached that social-trappings disconnect achievable only after several days of steady drinking, where you feel slightly juiced even while sober and there's very little you wouldn't do or say, despite the fact that you're still in complete control.
This is the sweet spot. This is when adventure happens.
It was decided that snacks were in order so Daveh braved a chili dog which promptly shat all over his shirt while Shug bought nachos drenched in orange plastic and Scots disappeared in search of something his delicate disposition could manage. I saw a restaurant which dredged up some murky memory dangling just out of reach. If life was a mystery film the dissonant strings would have been jabbing and I'd eventually discover I'd witnessed the fatal swordfishing of a relative while dining there as a child.
After being thoroughly bored by Pier 39(5) we decided to drift towards Ghiradhelli square, although "we" may have just been "I, with a patient DoctorFrog and an accommodating group of friends. En route it was suggested that it again might be time for drinking, so we stopped at an Irish pub that was Irish in as much as a bar that plays the same five U2 songs on infinite repeat can be. The waitress took an instant dislike to me because I asked to be billed separately, although factoring in might have been the fact that I stood up, pumped my fist in the air, and loudly sang along to a particularly anthemic U2 song.
The family of four eating dinner to the left of me seemed to find it funny.
So we were off to Ghirardhelli square(6), which sucked more dog balls than a FurCon afterparty. I seemed to recall from childhood visits a room where a vast sea of chocolate was being churned, but all we found was a gift shop where I could purchase the exact same Ghirardhelli chocolate bars that they sell at your neighborhood Borders. Scots did sample a bar, and since he can't eat anything without pronouncing the SCOTS CULINARY REVIEW he cocked his head and announced it lacking. Fuck him, those bitches make good chocolate.
By the naked mermaid ooh la la fountain we met up with RBJ and his lady friend, and were shortly thereafter blindsighted by hurricane MsLedd and the accompanying Strangblue. Holy crap, we nailed those storm windows and held on for dear life but goddamn I think we almost lost a member or two, probably whoever it was that incorrectly told her we'd wait at the Irish pub.
It was nearing dinner time so we walked towards dining choice Fisherman's Grotto while we all surreptitiously exchanged HOLY CRAP MSLEDD glances. As we waited to be seated there was much talk on her part about how none of us could match her drink for drink, despite our party packing an Aussie, a force of nature, and an Uncle Stitch, and all three of us tucked our nuts between our legs and folded submissively. This woman is made of tequila and cement and was not playing around.
Dinner at Fisherman's Grotto(7) was a pleasant affair except for the fact that the food was rather lackluster. Strangeblue's brother and friend joined us, although I think they, and RBJ's lady friend, were in a bit over their collective heads. Hello, INTERNET MEET, how on earth is inviting non-nerds a good idea? Oh those troubles in BioShock Gen, lads, let me break this shit down!
Still, in the end all was well. Scots bought a couple bottles of wine which I was more than happy to help polish off, and by this point the Scots/Shug/Stitch gay joke triumvirate had become a well oiled machine, and by well oiled I mean anally lubricated to accommodate a man of medium girth. You see, by this point your basic double entendre had lost its appeal, so the laws of escalation demanded increasingly explicit punch line addendums. I'm not so sure Strangeblue's company was amused.
After dinner RBJ and his date absconded and we accidentally abandoned MsLedd and 'Blue. While walking back to our hotels we ascended Nob hill, an incline so steep cars were parked sideways. Why did we ascend this hill? Because we are men who drink deeply, of course. Not of the cup of life or anything, just liquor.
Unfortunately, as GBM, Scots, and others have described, some of us thought it would be a good idea to tear up the hill as quickly as we could. I managed it, but just barely, collapsing on the cement and weakly pumping my fist in the air as the linings of my throat detached entirely.
The plan was to go our separate ways and meet up at my hotel room, since I technically was located nearest the club we had designs on, so DoctorFrog walked back to my room with me and chatted as I ironed a shirt, which ended up looking pretty much the same as it did pre-ironing. I was actually glad to have this half hour or so alone with the good doctor, as frankly he's an awesome guy and it was a pleasure just getting to know him better away from the rest of the crowd.
Eventually everyone showed up at my telephone booth of a room, and I needed a shoehorn and a bottle of lube just to raise the Jim Beam that Shug and I had procured to get the ball rolling. Once everyone arrived and had either succumbed to MsLedd's tequila pushing or resisted at no small threat to their person, out we poured like clowns from a Volkswagon and we were off to the club.
Which, err, wasn't open yet.
So we dipped into a small dive of a club with terrible beer and a couple of rappers. The MCs gave off a definite vibe of dudes rapping along to a tape in their living room except the living room was a shitty club, but the Aussies were rather impressed due to the fact that their hiphop needs to be imported. After about a half hour of this we went back to the desired club, which was still dark, shuttered, and abandoned. Not a good sign at 10:15 PM.
We formed an alcoholic huddle at the nearest terrible bar to plot our next course of action, at which point RBJ and his lady friend took their leave under no small cloud of drama. We were under the impression that they were heading to an uberswank trendy club called Ruby Skye, but none of us were really leaning toward that, and GBM's pleas to not be subjected to the horrors of an upscale club found purchase in my heart. As such, it was decided that salvation lay at the one/two punch of the Tunnel Top and Chelsea's Place, the best two bars we had hit the night before. One had loud music for dancing and the other had an environment ideal for chatting, and we could flit back and forth as need dictated.
Or not, as it turned out, as we spent the rest of the night at Chelsea's Place, regrettably minus one DoctorFrog, for he had to arise early the next morning to fulfill boyfriend duties. The rest of us raged on to avenge the fallen, however, and collectively had the kind of time that would be memorable if only you could remember it. I befriended a local alcoholic, GBM and David talked frank admin talk, and MsLedd took her pick of the boys and decided Shug was the one lucky enough to later explain an incriminating photo to his girlfriend. Starrfall, 'Blue, and Fahrhrhdfvh are getting the short end of the retelling stick here, but truthfully everyone was awesome and we had an epic time.
Eventually bar time rolled around so we took our merry hijinks outside for as long as the cops would let us, at which point David and the Starrfalls took their leave. The rest of us--whittled down to MsLedd, 'Blue, Fahrfdd, Scots, Shug, and myself--stopped in at Ruby Skye to check for RBJ, but the doorman told us the cover was still $20 although he tantalized us with the possibility of lowering it soon.
So we grabbed some diner food, an experience which gave us six the chance to chat pleasantly between french fries and greasy sandwiches. Or I think we did, anyway, as I had probably spent $300 on San Fran liquor by this point and the world was pretty blurry.
Afterwards we mostly parted, although Shug, Scots, and I dropped by Ruby Skye one more time to see if the doorman had lowered the price. A serious look was shot my way and I was sternly informed that the price was still $20.
"$20?" I said. "Even though the club is emptying out and you guys aren't serving alcohol anymore?"
"that's right," he said.
"FUCK THAT!" I shouted, raising my fist in the air in gleeful defiance, or was it just habit by this point? Who knows. We final three, the Anal Amigos, the Cock Joke Cabal, headed towards my hotel room as it was the only place we knew of in town that was still serving alcohol, for the one thing that united those of us still standing was the determination that despite the best efforts of Ruby Skye doormen and San Fran's law enforcement,
we weren't yet done doin' it.
TO BE CONTINUED.
Tomorrow: Sunday morning, anilingus, airplane near misses.
Photographic Appndix:
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