As we pulled up to the Warfield in a cab, the first thing I noticed was the marquee reading “QUICKBOOKS ROCKS!” Are you ready for some ridiculousness, whazzmaster? As is typical for these types of affairs, there was a guy dressed like Jimi Hendrix really thrashing on an inflatable guitar just through the entranceway, and some Boy George man-woman was encouraging people to get tattoos of the fake variety. Everyone went nuts for the tattoos, as I stayed back a distance. “Are you getting one?!” they’d ask. No, I don’t want any tattoos, real or fake, on my body. The next morning Judd stumbled into the bathroom and reportedly asked himself, “What the fuck is that on my neck?!” He went a bit overboard on free fake tattoos. I think that the tattoo lady was into him, but don’t worry Amanda, he ran away.
So the big news turned out to be just a cover band. Meanwhile, I was hunting for the “Backstage” area where the pink champagne and karaoke was. I found it later on, but it was underwhelming to say the least. The reverb on this dude’s karaoke setup was fer shit, and they didn’t even have Bust-A-Move. I did bust out a few new jams this time though: Mary Jane by Rick James? You know I got that, Young Jeezy. As a comedy warmup I tried I Want it That Way by Backstreet Boys and that train went off the tracks very quickly. Sorry Intuit, for fucking up a backstreet boys song. On the plus side, many people afterwards told me, “That was as good as the real Backstreet Boys,” with smirks on their smug faces. Shoulda just launched a left jab into their jaw.
Did a run-in and held down the fort for two managers doing Rapper’s Delight.
Afterwards I was plenty lubricated and got dragged down Market St to a bar called either Mr. Smith’s, Mrs. Smith’s, or Mr. and Mrs. Smith’s. It was your typical trendy SF bar. I had on a brewers shirt and a backpack. The bouncer said, “You got anything bad in that backpack?” I responded, “Umm, shaving cream and a toothbrush.” He waved me in; I guess I didn’t look all that threatening. Don’t remember a whole lot about dancing there in the basement, except for the fact that I danced in the basement. I vaguely recall everyone yelling, “GO WHITE BOY! GO WHITE BOY!” as I did a little dance, but who knows if it was fueled by sarcasm at my ineptness or genuine admiration of my ability to FUCKING KICK IT.
Judd and I had traded a spare ticket to the event for a place to drunkenly pass out at the end of the evening, which we did in spades. I woke up on a strange bed, in a strange house, with a large, strange dog curled up next to me. Judd fared somewhat worse, as he woke up on a couch, and when he stood to go to the bathroom he stepped in a giant puddle of piss that the large dog had left for him. When we left the house to go back downtown, we got out the security door and a half-block up until we realized we had no goddamned clue where we were. Neither of us remembered anything about the cab home, and while we were fairly certain we were still within the geographical boundaries of San Francisco, there weren’t too many hints forthcoming. Then I found Sutro Tower and said, “Hey, that’s that thing on Cal’s belt. I think I know where we are.” It turned out we were in Laurel Heights, which I found to be pleasant on our walk through it to catch a bus on California. I’m thinking about looking for a spot there.
The rest of the day I spent with the parents shopping through downtown like a storm. They bought me stuff like whoa: a shirt, cufflinks, and some deodorant. I bought myself complimentary crap: undershirts, $28 Ecko shoes, and another shirt. Then we went to House of Prime Rib on Van Ness. Delish, mon frerres. Sadly, I was a tuckered little guy after such a long day of hangover+parents+San Francisco, so I got home and passed out again at 9pm. Looking at my phone this morning, apparently all you scamps called me sometime after that.
I think we’re doing the Super Bowl at Winter’s in Pacifica. On the way we’re planning on stopping at a winery. OK, whoadie, let’s do this damn thang.
— but mary plays no games, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah