The Phallic Road Trip

I’m sure Phil will chime in with an actual reporting-type-update on yesterday’s shenanigans (he’s probably doing it right now) but I’d like to comment on some stuff that I’ve seen here on the West Coast so far from San Fran, up until yesterday on the Santa Cruz Boardwalk:

A) Homeless people

and

B) Boobs

A) These bums really aren’t messing around. San Francisco is probably only second in aggressive bums to Florence, which was overrun with dirty, crafty, gypsies. They’re not even presentable bums; they’re mostly dirty, crazy, drunk, and aren’t used to people totally ignoring them — as is our way in New York. This guy who looked like a cross between drunk Robin Williams and Flea accosted us whilst we were perusing the BART map and didn’t catch the many “fuck off” hints we were throwing him. A sample conversation:

Drunk Robin Williams: Where you guys going?
Bruer: ::awkward laugh:: We don’t really know yet.

DRW: ::incredulous raving:: HOW CAN YOU NOT KNOW WHERE YOU’RE GOING? Why are you looking on a map? That’s silly.

Bruer: We’re going to look over here now ::group walks towards information booth::

DRW: WHAT? LIKE SHE’S GONNA KNOW WHERE YOU’RE GOING?

And that happened. The homeless situation of Santa Cruz seemed to be more laid back, probably because we kept walking by a methadone clinic. We did, however, see an almost confrontation between a very drunk (though perhaps not homeless) dude and a mall security guard, who was advancing with mace …

–omg, The Price is Right is on!–

… and nightstick drawn. We hightailed it out of there.

On the whole [that’s what she said], I can totally understand why these people settle here — it’s freakin’ beautiful and temperate, and probably really liberal (lots of hot chicks). Speaking of hot chicks:

B) Boobs:

Yesterday was like an onslaught of boobies. While entering Santa Cruz, everyone in the car was transfixed on a woman walking up the hill with a very low-slung shirt. I almost crashed the car. Then, whilst wandering the arcade with a Fosters and drawing nasty looks from parents adjacent to my position at skee-ball, there were hundreds and hundreds of women in bikinis, almost see-through t-shirts, and lots of hot moms.

At one point, Phil, Bruedog, and I went on this big old wooden rollercoaster and went to find Justin, who had sallied out of the whole experience. As we were walking away — actually, let me set the scene:

Justin and Bruer are sitting on a bench next to a mom in a bathing suit. She’s not a MILF, but definitely a looker ten years ago. Sitting on the backrest of the bench, the mom between his legs, is her husband, with their two youngish sons running around in front of them. As we get up to get away, I look back at the beach, the kids are a few yards away watching the rollercoaster. Slowly the husband’s hand starts traveling down his wife’s freckled chest, as if to brush away a fly. Then, much to my surprise, his hand disappears into her top, gives a tweak, and comes back out. I think I was the only person to witness that. It was like Midwest Moms Gone Wild.

Vacation does weird things to a person’s sense of propriety, I’ll tell you what.

Today we’re visiting a playground and eating sandwiches. Justin will be hiding his burned, Phantom of the Opera-type face from the sun.

Stay tuned for updates on the Double-Double Trouble-Trouble Burger Bout.