San Francisco: Through the Eyes of a Pervert
David Pacheco
Red's short, point-by-point musings on San Francisco, published
via this medium earlier this week, have inspired me to put pen to
paper (or, in this case, fingers to keyboard since, heh heh, that
is much a more appropriate metaphor these days, heh heh, ha... ha
ha HAW HAW! HAW HAW HAW! H A W H A W H A W!!!),
and transcribe some of my own considered thoughts, comments and
opinions on this fine city after my own visit there last weekend.
First of all, starting with the LAX airport: following are two
fragments of a conversation with a ticket person who was helping
me out after my tickets were stolen. The name of the airline is
not important, but it was United Airlines. I had to give all the
details on the lost tix, and I think it went something... like
this:
"Sir, where did you buy these tickets from?"
"The Travel Company."
[ Irritated ] "Yes sir, which travel company?"
"No, no... The Travel Company."
Farcical whimsy ensued for minutes. But wait, there's more!
"Sir, how much did you pay for these tickets?"
"Ummmm... not sure." [ It was true... the company bought 'em ]
"Did you pay for them in dollars or in pounds?"
"Pounds, on an American Express card."
"Oh, never mind, here we go: you paid one hundred and twenty nine
dollars for them in the UK. That's... eighty-one dollars in
pounds."
"Huh?"
Oh, my goodness, the times we had. Forgive me, I must wipe away
a little piece of dirt from my eye. No wait, it's a bone shard.
Anyway, on the flight over we were notified that San Francisco is
a non-smoking facility, which is VERY ANNOYING to those of use
who very occasionally, maybe with a drink or two, always in a
social situation you understand, like to rip both ends off a
carton of Marlboro Lights and apply a flame-thrower to the non-
filtered side. You see, I don't smoke very often, and when I
lived in LA I smoked almost not at all, but since I have been
living in London I have decided that the only thing worse than
Death's sweet embrace (the one true release, devoutly to be
wished) is living a life unencumbered by ACTUAL ENJOYMENT OF
STUFF THAT GOD PUT HERE FOR US TO ENJOY. Therefore, I smoke, I
drink, I cook and eat fatty foods loaded with decidedly non-soy
based ingredients, I make light-hearted jests and well-
intentioned fun of various genders/religions/sexual
orientations/political views/ethnic groups (sometimes even my
own), always in an ironic way, always poking fun at the foibles
of humanity in my own inimitable fashion... occasionally I
perform an abortion or two, only when amongst friends, I can quit
whenever I want, I don't have a PROBLEM, man, YOU have a problem
DEALING with it.
So, no smoking. And Teg is a non-smoker: a recent convert to the
Church of Pulmonary Cleansing, if I understood correctly. WHAT'S
THE MATTER, TEG? EMPHYSEMA TO *GOOD* FOR YOU, HUH? THANKS, NO
BRONCHIAL SPASM FOR *ME*, I'VE QUIT SMOKING! NO CANCER, TEG?
YOU CANCER, YOU BROUGHT'ER!
Anyway, LA and SF are hellholes for smokers: I fully expect the
next big 'thing' in those cities to be full bronchial enemas.
"Oh, my lungs feel so *refreshed*, honey!" It's the combination
colon/lung enemas that worry me, especially if they use the same
tube.
So, enough about smoking, it's making me tense.
The flight in from LA: no peanuts. Pretzels. Enough.
Joseph M. Bay met me at the airport, before I got the chance to
page him over the PA. Oh, it would have been *hilarious*! I was
going to page him using some sort of 'wacky' or 'kooky' name,
like... oh, I don't know, 'Henry Kissinger' or something! Oh,
the confused looks on other travellers' faces! Priceless! But
as I was on the phone trying to convince the operator that my
name really was "Hunt, Mike", I caught Mr. Bay in the corner of
my eye, almost like a fish hook. He was holding up a sign
with... now get this... not *my* name on it, but someone *ELSE*!!
I swear, I got shivers: if his sign had read "Henry Kissinger", I
promise I would have just fainted dead away, right there and
then.
So we exchanged IDs to make sure that, if either of us was a
deranged pervert picking strangers up from the airport, at least
we were a *known* deranged pervert picking strangers up from the
airport. We left the airport, climbed into Joseph's Monster
Truck, and exchanged witty banter and wary, sidelong glances all
the way into the city. Joseph willed himself to not punch me in
the arm on various occasions, and I was much impressed with his
self-control. Apparently Mr. Bay has some Anger Management
Issues.
We went up the Street of Pain and the Ave. of Gastrointestinal
Discomfort and the Boulevard of Really Bad Gas, and we drove past
the Dolores Cathedral. This is one of a franchised chain in this
city, and contains a Starbucks where you can order a frappuccino
(made by authentic Frappuccin monks!) with the powdered remains
of any one saint of your choice. Also, the souvenir shop sells
authentic Jesus Jerky (peppered, teriyaki and the house
speciality: nailed to a toothpick). To accompany the meal I
recommend the house red, a "Last Supper" Chateau Sang de Juif
'95, which has some wonderful plum accents and a very fruity
aftertaste: by the chalice only, $3.75/75ml.
But we didn't eat there, oh no... we were looking for SUSHI!
Well, I was. And we found it, but the place ("We Be Sushi") was
closed. Fortunately: I'm not sure I trust a sushi place that
mangles its grammar so appallingly.
So we ended up eating at a place called Boolagongs or Goolagongs
or Goolabongs. Joe ordered the salmon, well done, but when they
brought it out it was still pink so we sent it back. The
waitress seemed confused, but believe it or not... when she
brought it out again, it was still pink! I was enraged, but Joe
didn't seem to mind. I ordered the Jesus Jerky 'al dente', with
a side of wafers.
By then it was time to move on, as there was a chance they could
have brought the bill out at any moment, and we didn't want to
take any risks. So we climbed into the Monster Truck and drove
off, tires squealing, at just over its maximum speed of 22 miles
an hour.
We drove out to The Park. Don't know which park The Park was,
but it wasn't the one referred to as the Presidio.
Allow me to clarify: Joe *said* we were driving out to The Park,
and indeed we headed *towards* a direction which could have
contained The Park. However, when the car was finally parked, we
walked several miles in all directions before *finding* The Park.
And all the while as we searched for The Park, Joe was mocking
Teg's lack of knowledge of San Francisco because apparently Teg
never gets out to 'The City'.
Fourteen hours later, we found The Park.
We then walked around The Park. I do mean *around*. Around the
perimeter. Apparently Joe feared that, since we had walked for
over half a day trying to find The Park, I would be so enraged
that I would kill him and bury his body where it would never be
found. So, he wanted to stay close to the roads and well-
populated trails in order to discourage me. Ha ha!
HA HA HA!
HA!
I laugh.
Anyway, we found The Park, walked around its perimeter, found
low-quality porn abandoned by homeless people which led us to
start a movement to Porn The Homeless (the march on Washington is
in July: contact me for details), and then found the HORSIES!
There's a horsery of sorts in the middle of The Park, and all the
horse stalls have signs which read:
WARNING: DO NOT COVER YOUR HAND IN CARROTS,
INSERT INTO HORSE'S MOUTH AND USE OTHER HAND
TO MOVE THE HORSES JAW UP AND DOWN,
CAUSING A 'BITING' SENSATION
...except for the one stall that had the sign reading "THIS HORSE
BITES", a sentiment with which, after brief examination of the
horse in question, we had to agree. At the back of the stables
there was a large painting on the wall of a beautiful horse, with
descriptions of the terminology professional trainers use to
describe the body parts of these wonderful creatures: I have
attempted to recreate the painting below.
.--.-.
( |\ `) <------ glue
(__/` ) )
head ------> / e ( ) <------ glue
.' \ )
\^ __/ ) ) .'"-. <------ glue
glue ---> \-__/\ ( )______ / `\
| `-; | `\.-. ) <------ glue
glue ---> | \ / \ ) )
| '--' | ( ( <------ poop
comes
glue ---> | .-. .-. | `--` out here
|\ /\/ | | \/ /| <------ glue
|\ './ / /------\ \ _.'//|
\`';_/ / \\ \'_.'`/
'. `-./_`"""""` ;\_.-' .'
'-._ `""""""` _.-'
`'-.........-'`
Truly, truly majestic animals.
But despite their obvious use as an alternate form of
transportation, we decided to continue walking, lest we end up
covered in horse bites.
In relating this story, I have completely skipped over the
chapter in which we stumbled upon the preparations for an open-
air concert that was to happen the following day. This I have
done on purpose, in order to avoid thinking of a phrase
emblazoned on one of the tents strung up around the field:
"Extreme Creme Soda". But now, as you see, it is too late.
Finally, we reached the Pacific Ocean. This gave me the
opportunity to cleanse my shoes of collected burrs, grass stains
and chiggers, and replace them with several hands full of filthy
sand. Nunn Bushes, Joe: you owe me $75.
On the beach we found several confused ladybugs, a dead pigeon, a
large man who did not know the time, something disgustingly
gelatinous washed up by the waves, and several dogs: one of these
followed us around for a while. It was a dog.
We convinced ourselves it was acting as kind of a chick magnet,
until we realised that, when you are in San Francisco, two guys
walking along the beach with a dog aren't necessarily announcing
themselves as 'available'. In fact, it is the very fact that you
are there as part of a non-mixed-sex couple (who own a *dog*)
that makes you non-threatening. Disconsolate, but encouraged by
the amount of extremely fat people who felt it their duty to
unfold their vast flesh upon the sand (thus making us look
extremely svelte by comparison), we departed the dunes and
returned to The Park.
Walking the two thousand miles back to the car, we exchanged
further witty banter, occasionally assuming the voice of favorite
characters from "Caddyshack", "The Simpsons", or "My Little Pony:
The Series". Various signs were read and mocked ("CityMon! I
choose YOU!"), the dogged determination of leafleteers for a
local Chinese restaurant was admired, theories on what happens to
electricity as it gets pushed out to the sea by buses were
exchanged.
Night fell, the sun rose, night fell again. Finally, we reached
the car just as the nubs of flesh on the end of which I used to
have feet collapsed. The car started and we proceeded to La Casa
de Teg y Su Mujer, stopping only to purchase beverages of an
alcoholic nature. I rejected the miniature airplane bar-sized
tequila bottle(s) since, at that size, they were over 40% worm.
When I eat the worm at the bottom of a tequila bottle, it is
*only*--and I am quite strict about this--*after* numbing my
senses (common and otherwise) with the full 75cl of tequila that
must precede it.
We arrived Chez Teg y Mujer. Red has detailed their statuesque
beauty, their genetic potential, so I will go no further in
describing it here: to use mere words would only diminish them,
so astounding were their qualities. Plus, they have fabulous
taste in both music and reading material, their libraries
containing elements that mine share in both categories. I tore
up the name of the Pope as Sinead O'Connor sang, and we
laughed... oh, how we laughed.
Almost like this: "Ha ha, hee hee, ho ho ho, ha ha ha!", but with
sound.
Conversation flowed like Diuretic Day at the Incontinence Clinic
(yes, I realize I used that comparison in a different post
yesterday, but I like it: if I so desire, I may use it again, I
offer no apologies). Alex Suter joined the festivities and
collaborated in bringing to this house of friends a dose of
merriment, of unmitigated joy, of red-headed and pale-skinned
joie de vivre. The absence of rone was lamented. Wine was
consumed, bread was broken, salmon was scraped up from the floor
and served with pasta. Picking what looked like a pubic hair
from my fork, I found myself wishing that this moment would never
end, that we could remain ever thus, we happy band of brothers
and sisters, we companions, we warriors late at night fighting
the weasels of loneliness baying at the door.
But end it did, as the clock struck three. Alex departed, and
the World's Loudest Alarm Clock was provided to make sure we
could tell the difference between wake and sleep (the latter
being the state in which you *don't* want to get up and throw the
alarm clock out the window).
The next day contained little with which to entertain the reader:
I woke up way too early and read some of the collected literature
until the alarm shattered silence and eardrums, we had coffee
and muffins, then it was time to leave. Embracing my new-found
friends with all the strength I could muster (which wasn't much,
considering my aversion to human flesh), I wished them all the
happiness they could find in the world, and departed.
Drive back to airport, flight back to London, blah blah blah.
The utter banality of the return trip is underscored by the fact
that the best in-flight movie Virgin had to offer was "Stuart
Little". I became hopelessly infatuated with the beautiful woman
sitting next to me, especially after I noticed that she was
writing an email to an executive headhunter describing her salary
as "$275,000 plus bonuses", but being married, she was beyond
reach. Oh! Wretched life!
That's it. SF in a weekend. I have nothing more to say, other
than whenever any member of that troupe wishes to travel to
London, they can be assured that I will be waiting to welcome
them with arms open and legs akimbo.
Good times.... *goood* times.
-dp.
THE ENB!
Chris McGonnell
But you wore a flower in your hair, right?
--
Chris McG.
Harming humanity since 1951
"also, im the best thing since sliced god1" -Simon Clark
James Kibo Parry
>
> [...]
>
> Anyway, we found The Park, walked around its perimeter, found
> low-quality porn abandoned by homeless people which led us to
> start a movement to Porn The Homeless (the march on Washington is
> in July: contact me for details), and then found the HORSIES!
Wait, go back. Describe the concept of low-quality non-Internet porn.
I thought "low-quality" porn was synonymous with the Internet.
STOP SKIPPING THE BAD PORN!
> There's a horsery of sorts in the middle of The Park, and all the
> horse stalls have signs which read:
>
> WARNING: DO NOT COVER YOUR HAND IN CARROTS,
> INSERT INTO HORSE'S MOUTH AND USE OTHER HAND
> TO MOVE THE HORSES JAW UP AND DOWN,
> CAUSING A 'BITING' SENSATION
>
> ...except for the one stall that had the sign reading "THIS HORSE
> BITES", a sentiment with which, after brief examination of the
> horse in question, we had to agree. At the back of the stables
> there was a large painting on the wall of a beautiful horse, with
> descriptions of the terminology professional trainers use to
> describe the body parts of these wonderful creatures: I have
> attempted to recreate the painting below.
>
> .--.-.
> ( |\ `) <------ glue
> (__/` ) )
> head ------> / e ( ) <------ glue
> .' \ )
> \^ __/ ) ) .'"-. <------ glue
> glue ---> \-__/\ ( )______ / `\
> | `-; | `\.-. ) <------ glue
> glue ---> | \ / \ ) )
> | '--' | ( ( <------ poop comes out here
> glue ---> | .-. .-. | `--`
> |\ /\/ | | \/ /| <------ glue
> |\ './ / /------\ \ _.'//|
> \`';_/ / \\ \'_.'`/
> '. `-./_`"""""` ;\_.-' .'
> '-._ `""""""` _.-'
> `'-.........-'`
>
>
> Truly, truly majestic animals.
They make e's out of horse eyeballs? EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEW! Whoops, I mean,
IIIIIIIIIIIIIICK!
I just hope they don't also make I's out of eyes.
Also, you forgot to label the tiny square part with the five holes
punched through it and a white stucco castle-shaped drive-thru around it.
> But despite their obvious use as an alternate form of
> transportation, we decided to continue walking, lest we end up
> covered in horse bites.
Or covered in the poop that comes out from the tips of their tails.
-- K.
That horse looks round and
stubby and plump and puffy.
Is he inflatable, or just
Japanese?
(Hi, Xydexx!)
Joseph Michael Bay
>> Anyway, we found The Park, walked around its perimeter, found
>> low-quality porn abandoned by homeless people which led us to
>> start a movement to Porn The Homeless (the march on Washington is
>> in July: contact me for details), and then found the HORSIES!
>Wait, go back. Describe the concept of low-quality non-Internet porn.
>I thought "low-quality" porn was synonymous with the Internet.
>STOP SKIPPING THE BAD PORN!
"Low quality porn" means "underwear ads from the Macy's catalog".
It's not terribly pornographic.
>They make e's out of horse eyeballs? EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEW! Whoops, I mean,
>IIIIIIIIIIIIIICK!
Just don't go to any raves.
--
Joseph M. Bay Boy Genius
Putting the "harm" in the "Molecular Pharmacology" since 1997
(Oo) Someone you trust is One of Us. (oO)
/{|\ What Would Cthulhu Do? /|}\
David DeLaney
>David Pacheco (david_...@lineone.net) wrote:
>> Anyway, we found The Park, walked around its perimeter, found
>> low-quality porn abandoned by homeless people which led us to
>> start a movement to Porn The Homeless (the march on Washington is
>> in July: contact me for details), and then found the HORSIES!
>
P0rn that's been rained on. A lot.
Note to li'l innocent David: That p0rn was probably -not- dropped by
homeless people or persons. (If you actually -saw- them dropping it,
I'll revise my probability spread. But until then...)
Dave "horseys deleted because this post's already s1ck enough" DeLaney
--
\/David DeLaney posting from d...@vic.com "It's not the pot that grows the flower
It's not the clock that slows the hour The definition's plain for anyone to see
Love is all it takes to make a family" - R&P. VISUALIZE HAPPYNET VRbeable<BLINK>
http://panacea.phys.utk.edu/~dbd/ - net.legends FAQ/ I WUV you in all CAPS! --K.
Xydexx Squeakypony
>(Hi, Xydexx!)
Hi, Kibo! -:)
--
_________________________________________________
Xydexx Squeakypony http://www.xydexx.com
"If we're going to be damned, let's be damned for
who we really are."---Jean-Luc Picard, Star Trek
Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/
Before you buy.