The Phallic Road Trip

This city has a lot of stuff, most notably: hills, palm trees, and ugly people.

We figured that yesterday was going to be slow-ish and relatively free of any real sightseeing since both Brad and J-ma’s friend Kyle had work, and we had promised to include him in touristy stuff. With this in mind we had a ridiculously large breakfast across the street from our hotel at Pinecrest Diner, home of the “best breakfast in San Francisco,” a bold statement that they backed up — though we have no other SF breakfast experience to compare it to. Solid eggs nonetheless. Anyway, the only one who didn’t roll with the Clean Plate Club was Phil, who ordered a daunting meal consisting of 4 pancakes and 2 eggs — a two-by-four. Clever.

Our stomachs full, we headed out into the sun to wander aimlessly, picking up Slurpees and watching some sort of immigration demonstration. This is nothing new for us; for whatever reason, we are confronted with protesting Latinos pretty much every week in New York. But yesterday was special. Yes, it was very special because there was a gentleman standing across the street yelling racial slurs from his safe spot, behind a bus. Video to follow. A kindly gay gentleman basically told him to grow a pair. The yelling guy — who looked like an even more disheveled Peter Jackson — got really, really angry. Apparently “faggotry” is a word and God won’t stand for that nonsense. We lost interest shortly thereafter.

From there we walked down Market Street and ended up — after a solid hour of walking and J-ma turning 3 shades redder — at Pier 39, which Lonely Planet describes as “the epicenter of (bland) tourism and home of the cities fishing fleet. … Locals are baffled that tourists are drawn here.” I gotta say, I concur. It was like a bigger South Street Seaport with more crappy stores and ugly people. No joke, there wasn’t a looker in the bunch.

It was at some seafood joint where we were leisurely enjoying 23-oz Anchor Steams and people watching that Kyle dubbed it Mos Eisley. We had been sitting there for (by J-ma’s count) four and a half or five hours and racked up a tab of $399 — quite the showing. After Brad showed up, we went on an In-N-Out adventure, which was followed by a ghastly walk up those freaking hills.

Can we talk about the hills in this town? The area adjacent to the ferry landing totally reminds me of Barcelona. It’s pretty and stuff. But let’s say that, just maybe you’ve had a few drinks and you’re kinda full and just want to get to the next bar. Not only are there zero cabs in sight, but you’re faced with Lombard St. You pass a gentleman on the way to said bar as you are saying “too many fuckin’ hills” and he replies by stomping out his cigarette and suggesting “that’s why we drive here.” He’s cloaked in shadow in the door of an apartment building. You continue on.

Now let’s assume that you make it to Bar None, which is owned by the same people as its NY counterpart, looks exactly the same, and isn’t too crowded. Then let’s take a step back. Let’s glance over at the bouncer again. It’s the same guy from the doorway. He somehow beat us to the bar. It was like he was magic.

We got in a cab and came home to watch YouTube before passing out. It was a magical night. Today will probably consist of touristy things, or something. I have a deep craving for a grapefruit with a side of sausage. I yearn. Oh yes.