I Spilled a Drink in a Dive Bar

This past Saturday night a large group of us were at Tunnel Top in San Francisco to celebrate my girlfriend's birthday. Tunnel Top is a nice dive with a DJ, good drinks, and a bit of space so it doesn't get uncomfortably crowded.

I was standing downstairs chatting with a good friend, Ryan, and his girlfriend, Carly. I talk with my hands, especially when I've had a drink or two, and I accidentally smacked Carly's glass of wine. It splashed on the floor and we laughed, she gave me "go to hell" eyes, and we moved on.

About 5 minutes after the spill, the blonde in front of us turns around with a look of utter shock on her face. "

"What just happened?" she said, looking directly at Carly. "Did you just spill all over my shirt?"

I stepped in, apologized, and offered to buy them a drink. I even offered to pay to replace her shirt.  This odd social fencing match took longer than expected. Ryan and I were quietly quick to agree that neither of these girls were very attractive. Were we single and they better looking we may have capitalized on this bar faux paus.

But, we aren't, and they weren't.

Blonde kept re-stating that we spilled our drink on her. This was clearly accepted and understood by all involved. She also emphasized that her shirt may be ruined. We kept apologizing. This exchange on for about 4 minutes, which is about 3 minutes, 48 seconds too long.

Eventually the blonde and her friend, a fine schnauzer of a lass, seemed to have closure and they walked about 5 feet away.

Me, Ryan, and Carly continued our conversation.

But, closure was not had! Ryan and I noticed that Carly became increasingly more agitated and realized that blonde and her lap dog friend were giving Carly evil eyes. Carly threw up her arms in frustration "What do you want? It's a bar!" she shouted.

Blondie and Scooby came back.

"It's okay!" Blonde explained. "You spilled on us, but you know, you spilled everywhere." She pointed at the floor, in case we weren't aware of gravity's effect on airborne liquids.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'll replace your shirt."

"No, it's okay! But you did spill on us. Look at what's on the floor." Yes, we know what's on the floor.

I turned to Ryan and asked him what was going on. He looked at me with wild eyes and stated simply that he had no clue. A foot away, Carly explained to them that sometimes drinks are spilled in a bar. She spoke very slowly, as if explaining quantum physics to a stupid child.

Alas, Blondie and Marmaduke kept re-living the most awkward and insignificant of bar encounters. Over. And over.

I double checked with Ryan once more to confirm that our earlier assessment of their attractiveness was accurate. He confirmed this for me. Ryan's a good man. It's important to note that by this point we no longer cared about being civil and were discussing this at full volume.

"Hey guys," I said, taking charge of the conversation. "We're sorry this happened. Why don't you let me buy your next round."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," blonde-a-saurus explained.

"Excellent!" I chimed. "Then why are you still talking to us?"

This went over about as well as expected and they left for good.

An Evening with Lazy Bear

Beth and I enjoyed what I consider to be the greatest of dining experiences this past Friday the 13th. It was one of the most "San Francisco" things I've ever done, a fantastic culinary experience, and an absolutely delightful venture outside our typical social comfort zone.

It is hard not to gaze at a beautiful church like Grace Cathedral here in San Francisco and not consider that the star of the church. But, anyone who belongs to the church will tell you that a church is not comprised of brick and mortar, but of its members and the sense of fellowship they bring. In some ways it's not even about God.

Similarly, Lazy Bear is not anchored to any physical space (not yet, at least). Its proprietor, Chef David, purchases the majority of the food from the Embarcadero Farmer's market and spends hours prepping in his living room while watching movies. The space in which we dined was a rented building of sorts in the mission with a kitchen and two long tables set for 10 people apiece. If you're wondering where I'm going with my church metaphor, here it is:

Lazy Bear is not about its location (or lack thereof), but about the passion of its chef, the delightful flavors of his food, and the fellowship of 20 unfamiliar diners at a time. In this sense, I am a part of Lazy Bear. That's a connection I haven't made with any of my other favorite restaurants.

If I said your show was a total pile, would you hold it against me?

Tickets for Britney Spears' free concert went live this week and sold out in somewhere between 8 to 15 minutes. Beth and I were lucky enough to snag a pair. I must admit, despite being a whackjob pop star with a questionable amount of talent, I was psyched to see Britney Spears.

Britney Spears! Hit Me Baby One More Time! Toxic! Britney Bitch! Admit it, you know all of her songs. If you went to high school in the late 90s you know what I'm talking about. She was everywhere and she was hot.

We were excited. Then, late Saturday night at a cousin's birthday party, Beth's aunt reveals she has a friend who can get us VIP tickets. What? What! We snatched those suckers and gave our peasant tickets to a friend. Excitement turned to ecstatic. The Germans have a word for this: uberglucklich

I Bet you Voted for Obama: A Douche of the Week Story

Beth and I were just finishing a very lovely dinner at the excellent Elite Cafe on Fillmore Street. We were eating outside as we were accompanied by the miscreant corgi and the weather was really nice.

With half an apple crumb dessert to go, the unfortunate and overpowering scent of cigarette smoke entered my sinuses. I looked up from my sweet delight and noticed a sharply dressed, suited man smoking not 2 feet to my right. He was accompanied by a giggling woman with a very strong foreign accent.

I hate cigarette smoke. Even more, I hate people so oblivious to the comfort of those around them, like the assholes who immediately put their seat entirely back at the beginning of a 23 hour flight. It's important for me to note that I think it's possible to be a smoker and not be a douche.

"Could you please not smoke near me while I'm eating?" I asked. I was honestly not snarling or being rude. I made my request politely.

He grins a bit, says "Oh, sure, my apologies," and begins pacing about in front of me. I guess this is no longer smoking in front of me? His giggling harlot says something to the effect of "you are saucy" to me. She was making fun of me!

This enraged me. I could barely eat; I was just stunned at their behavior. I'm not irrational though, nor was I willing to cause a scene in front of a good restaurant on a crowded street. I calmly add "It's also illegal for you to be smoking here."

Tokyo Rose on his arm giggled and said "He doesn't like smoky." At this point, I was trying to do the math to compute whether I could kill her with my spoon.

He walked in front of my table again and said "I bet you voted for Obama, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I bet I did," I responded. Really? Because I don't like to have you smoke on my face while eating I'm some raging, bleeding heart liberal? I hope to god I have health care of some sort if types like you rule the world.

The pregnant woman sitting at the table immediately left of me nodded at me in approval of my stance. Her husband then said, "I didn't vote for him and I'd like you to stop smoking."

Wow! I really Mr. Smoky Suit gets E. Coli or Salmonella. I'm entirely willing to trade the deliciousness that is Elite Cafe for one incredible bout of fatal food poisoning. Well, make that two bouts.

Coming to Terms with San Francisco: My Best Of List

For a long time I've been quite frustrated with my California existence, though life isn't all that bad. It's the combination of the high cost of living, farcical state government, and a healthy dose of nostalgia for place of my upbringing. Alas, I grow older and the circumstances of my life (girlfriend, career) and the realization that I have absolutely no desire to live in Texas has forced me to re-examine the place that will more than likely be me home.

I  need to come to terms with San Francisco and this seems like the perfect excuse to make a personal "best of" list for the city. True, they are common, and more true, I may have very little to add that others haven't already stated, but I can be quite negative and I need a fresh, positive outlook.

What is going on next door?

The gleeful cries and exultation of children were surprisingly heard by me Monday morning while unpacking in my new apartment. As I gazed out my new study window I saw a gaggle of children. Unfortunately, they also saw me, standing there in my boxers. I'm pretty sure that's illegal in California.

"What the hell were so many children doing in my neighbor's house?" I thought as I ran to note the need for a curtain in the study. Really, there are only three or four logical reasons. I consider myself a son of logic, a half-breed mixture of Spock and Holmes (imagine the cool hand gesture w/ the awesome hat). This was a case I could solve.