San Francisco

Well, I had a blast. Rolled over to Amoeba for my first time and bought some shit with Serg. That store is fucking boss. I had to restrain myself, and still spent nearly a hundred bucks.


While the wife's away, the boy's will play. And pay. Before we went out, I downed all but a few shots of a 1/5 of Wet, this tasty new gin by BeefEater. Simply delicious. We then went out for chinese food, and that's when I noticed that it was getting hard to act sober. The food was very good, but I have no idea what I ordered. It was red chicken. Pretty sure it was Mother's Chicken, but I can't be sure.

We hop in a cab and head for Milk, this pretty cool DJ Bar/Lounge where Stef was set to spin. I immediately go and meet the bartender, and ask him what his strongest drink is, and how much it's gonna set me back. It was a Hurricane, or Slurricane, for just under 10 bones. No biggie, so I order it. I'm drinking it as people start to flow in. Stef's getting warmed up in the rear of the club, getting ready to tear shit up.

From that point on, the night's a blur. I remember sitting on the stage listening to Stef spin, and it was HOT. The temperature, as well as her skills on the 1's & 2's, that is. So I ditch my hoodie, and represent my sleeveless John Deere shirt. I'm all fucking class.

The whiskey 'n' cokes to follow the slurricane become too much, and I decide that I must go outside for some air and a smoke. I guess sitting down was too comfy, because I awoke surrounded by cops talking to the doormen. I look around for Serg and Stef, and they're nowhere to be found. They wouldn't let me back in, for some reason, and the cop wouldn't listen to my drunken rantings and ravings about being lost in this fucked up hippy city. (I love SF, by the way) Come to think of it, I'm surprised they didn't cuff me for public intoxication. I was WELL over the fucking limit.

So being the Magellan that I am, I figure I can walk back to their apartment. So here I am, drunk off my ass, in freezing weather wearing a sleevless shirt, bald head, stomping through the sloped streets of SF, fists clenched, cursing my idiocy for not bringing the hoodie outside. I was fucking power-walking, not even paying attention to shit, when I realize that I'm fucking LOST. No damn clue where I am, and only a vauge idea of where I'm going. You could cut glass with my nipples.

Out of nowhere, I realize that this is a big city. Big cities have cabs. Sweet. Well, I must have looked like a serial killer, because it took like 6 cabs for one to stop and pick me up. Serg finally answered my call when they got home, but by then, I was in a cab heading to their casa. By phone records, I think I got to their apartment around 2:30. I made a drink, probably only had a sip, and tried to crawl into a sleeping bag. People, that's harder than it sounds. I was out in minutes.

By the way, they turned me onto this show on BBC America, "Trailer Park Boys". I had caught a few glimpses of it while turning channels before, but DAMN. That is some funny fucking shit right there. Get it.