San Francisco

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On Saturday afternoon I walked around San Francisco. We walked from Hayes Valley to the Mission. The sketchy parts of the city happen abruptly. It's like Boom, now I feel uncomfortable. I saw all of the things that would cause somebody to say "this is sketchy", though each of them individually might elicit a similar response. Crazy homeless people, prostitutes, public urination, and several broad day light drug deals.

On the way home I found a box that had over one thousand business cards for a Mexican clown from Fresno named Payasito Caramelo. They were just sitting on a mailbox. I am going to get some labels with my information and use these as my business cards. No, we do not "regalamos globos" any more, I'm sorry.

I took a nap.

Afterwards, we went to check out Love Fest, a rave in the civic center. From a management perspective it was poorly run, but from a festival-goer standpoint it was awesome. Nobody checked our brown paper bags and there weren't that many security guards. We met up with friends and danced around. Earlier in the day, there was a parade with disco floats, they all met up at the civic center and were pumping loud music. You had to get close to the floats or you would be dancing to trance, when the float you were supposed to be at was clearly playing trance.

I saw more broad day light drug deals, this time it was probably ecstasy and not crack.

There were some speakers set up in the middle of the park, with a middle finger hanging over them that said "FUCK CORPORATE PARTIES." They were playing music that was terrible, but in the best possible way, it was like digital hardcore noise. The beats were so fast, glitchy, and gritty. I rocked out hard to that.

Then we danced for forty five minutes to an extended version of one Daft Punk song.

On the way out a girl commented on my Manu Chao t-shirt, and within minutes we all left to find a bar, and then a dance party at my friend's house.



We bought beers and tiny raspberry shots of vodka (1$) at a liquor store and went to the dance party.

The dance party consisted of all the people we were with dancing to songs by Boyz II Men and The Pixies. As we were trying to leave, our new friend got stuck in the bathroom, in one of those weird I'm a drunk girl who cries about not being able to throw up. Oh yeah it was 9:30.

We found that girl a cab ride home. Then we walked around searching for another ride. The cab driver was clearly Sikh, but he told us his name was Adalberto, and pretended to speak Spanish. He didn't understand my Spanish, and admitted that he was really from Punjab. He talked shit about the craziest cab driver I've ever known, a guy who claimed to be a member of the traveling cast of Phantom of the Opera. Adalberto was an excellent driver, in that he was awesome, but he still drove extra distances to keep the meter running.

We ended up at a bar in the North Beach. It was a fratty-yuppie bar that was going to charge five dollars for men and zero dollars for women. I said he meant they were going to be charging me and my friend Adrienne $2.50 each. Some girl in line thought that was funny.

Luckily the friend we were waiting for showed up, and took us to a bar that looked French or was just designed by the people behind the Mimi's Cafe chain. I was excited because I saved $2.50, and I was able to pee. All I'm saying is that at its fullest, my bladder can hold ninety seconds worth of urine.

I continued the conversation with an English guy about the similarities between British and Jewish American humor. We had never spoken before, but I have had this conversation dozens of times with other Britons. I talked to him as if he was aware of what I was talking about. Incidentally he didn't call me out on my belligerence when I said provocative things like "I've never met a British person who does not think that they are funny." He was actually interested when I noted that both Jewish and British humor is self-deprecating and relies on awkwardness. But then a girl with tattoos sat next to me, and I lost my train of thought.

The cab ride back amounted to me yelling things out the window at other cars.

I think I kept semi-earnestly yelling: "Throw Bombs at White People" and "Free Eggplant Parmesan." The cab driver yelled out "Free Chicken Tikka Masala." We got into a shouting match, not with each other, but just to see who could shout out weirder things.

After four days of excessive drinking I got to the Oakland airport, with every other weekend vacationer. The line was terrible, but I was able to circumvent one of the queues, because I didn't check any bags. I finally got through security, toothpasteless, but still alive.

I think that the real terrorism is having to spend two hours waiting in line for a flight that is forty-five minutes.

I arrived at home to start another week of unemployment, but I don't even get paid for it.

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