My San Francisco Trip. In More Detail Than You Want

So I would've updated from San Francisco but Blake, in a moment of incredible silliness, forgot his wireless internet password. It's a good thing I have one, because I was relegated to my iPhone for internet access for most of the trip. Blake, that deserves a fist shake. There, I shook my fist. Internet problems aside, San Francisco was a ton of fun. Real quick recap
Tuesday - arrived and met up with Dave, who saw Will Ferrell in a Starbucks at the airport. I clearly arrived too late. Once we got to the city, we (the gang - Dave, Blake, and Emma, as well as Dylan, Blake's roommate, oh and Kool-get it?) went to the Mission for some delicious burritos. Then we hit up a bar called the Rio whose main attractions were terrible margaritas and even worse live music. And a cat roaming around the patio. We lasted for two rounds at that bar before moving on to find greener pastures. We settled on heading to a party hosted by some girl Emma knows (read: "knows"). After listening to Blake complain about the bus system for twelve minutes, Emma decided to try to catch the bus. Blake and Dylan decided they weren't going along and headed towards the BART station (yes, San Francisco's subway is named after a Simpsons character). I followed Blake, and we ended up near the party waaaay before Emma and the rest. So we went to another bar before heading to the party. The party ended up being a bunch of drunk modern hippies sitting around a bonfire trying to make s'mores. Life lesson: marshmallow is a bad chaser for whiskey. The fire was pretty fun though - marshmallows, guitar, a burn victim, and Blake tackling Dave. My clothes smelled like smoke for the next fifteen hours, but it was well worth it.

Wednesday - Emma and Blake had work. Lame. Dave and I met up with his roommate Sam, and the three of us did touristy things. We walked around the Embarcadero, Fisherman's Wharf, and the Pier. We saw a man try to scare a seal off the dock. Wildlife abound. After a desperate search for somewhere to pee, we ate a much anticipated meal at In N' Out Burger. People from the West Coast love it. I've heard much praise. And honestly, it wasn't that great. Maybe it was my sobriety. Or maybe I just didn't drink the In N' Out Kool-Aid. I don't really get the hype. Chipotle hype seems more legitimate. I mean, the burger was just fine. The "animal style" fries were sort of gross. It was far from the mind-blowing experience I expected. Our next stop was recommended by my mom, of all people: the Buena Vista, famous for its Irish coffee. And I'll say, the Irish coffee did exactly the opposite of In N' Out burger; it totally rocked my world. Best Irish coffee I've ever had. Heck, the Buena Vista was even mentioned in a recent NYTimes article about Irish coffee. At night the gang headed out to a New York style deli (chosen by Blake - why is that what I want to eat when I head out west?) and a couple bars. The first bar, Kozy Kar, had centerfolds all over and classic tv interspersed with porn on tv. It really wasn't the perfect set-up, so we moved on to playing pool at an Irish bar. Emma put metal on the jukebox and scared away customers, leaving Blake and Dave to apologize to the bartender. Way to go.

Thursday - (wow this is getting long. I'll try to shorten it up) Again with the work for Emma and Blake, leaving Dave and me to fend for ourselves. I had lunch with my cousin at the Embarcardero and bought twelve dollar jeans. I was proud of myself. That evening, Dave and I ventured out to an Italian restaurant called Ideale and a fantastic bar called the Comstock Saloon. The Comstock was on the GQ top 25 cocktail bars list, and it absolutely lived up to its billing. I had the best Sazerac of my life, and a really good Blood and Sand. Then we met up with Emma to watch fire spinners. As in, people spinning sticks that were on fire. Apparently it's a popular hobby? But it was pretty cool to watch. However, the highlight of the night was one of Emma's friends letting me use his bullwhip. I'll be damned if I didn't hum the Indiana Jones theme song to myself as I attempted to crack the whip without smacking myself in the face (I succeeded!) It was epic. I think I have to purchase a bullwhip now. It's just about the coolest thing I've ever held. Dave got a hotel room with his girlfriend (too long a story - he can get his own blog if he wants to tell it), so Emma and I got some bomb nachos and went back to Blake's. Long story short, I ended up drinking with Blake and his girlfriend until 4 am (7 am EST, which is the time I was on). And Thursday mergers into...

Friday - where I woke up drunk after about five hours of sleep. What a miserable feeling! Oh god! It's somehow worse than the "I'm never drinking again" feeling. Blake took the day off and he, Dave, and I went to Haight St. Apparently there are no laws in San Francisco and you can drink and smoke a bowl in public. Saw lots of that. And a drum circle in the park at the end of Haight, which I think is Golden Gate Park. Nothing causes righteous anger like a drum circle. (Side note: I really have never smelled as much pot just walking around the street. It's totally crazy for me to wrap my mind around. I guess I'm not 'chill' and 'mellow' enough to find it normal. Don't you all have jobs?? What are you doing smoking a joint in the middle of the day walking down the street?) In the middle of Haight, I started feeling a lot better (how is not fit to print). We went to the Alembic, another of GQ's chosen cocktail bars, where I had a good pisco sour. Maybe it was the context (not feeling well, middle of the afternoon, bartender's bad attitude), but the Alembic was not as good as Comstock Saloon. Take a note of that. Still a fun bar. After Haight, we went for dinner in the Mission. Blake ordered a pitcher of margaritas and berated me for an hour that I wasn't day drinking with him. How dare he take a day off and I refuse to drink away my hangover? So while Blake and Dave engaged in some competitive margarita drinking, I ate a taco salad and felt a lot better. That night the gang went to a funk show at the Independent. Now, we thought we were going to see Dumpstafunk (not that it means anything to me), but the opening band just kept playing. And playing. Their first three or so songs I was fine with. Then I got annoyed, but I found solace in the fact that they were just the opening band and would end shortly. I was wrong. They played for at least an hour and a half. I went through the entire emotional spectrum: excitement -> annoyance -> anger -> denial -> acceptance -> funkytown. But by the time I got to funkytown, everyone else got to anger. Who was I to stop everyone from leaving a funk show where we had already put in 90 minutes? So we left, went to a crappy bar, and I got about 4 hours of sleep before my flight. The next day Southwest almost let me miss my flight, but that's not as good a story.

And that's quite long enough for that post. More later. Sufficed to say, I am back in DC, the weather is beautiful, and I have little to no drive to do my reading. In fact, this week I just skipped my Trusts & Estates reading. And no hellfire rained down. Nothing bad happened to me. I think this may be the start of a whole new outlook on life.