Instead of waiting five months before getting around to posting the pics of my trip, not only did I upgrade the software to run my photo gallery, I actually posted and commented on (most of) the pictures. You can check them out in my new and improved image gallery.
I accepted reality with a heavy sigh as the plane came to a halt and the Captain spoke those three dreaded words: “Welcome to Detroit.” As I walked reluctantly with a slight limp–my shoes weren’t made for walkin’–, I sifted through my pockets and pulled out my SF MUNI 7-Day Passport, with all its wear and tear. I looked at it quizzically. Was it all just a dream?
Here I sit, back home in Michigan, in my old familiar room, in front of my old familiar monitor, in my chair in which I’ve wasted so many hours, and will continue to waste so many more. I don’t want this comfort. I don’t want to feel safe. I want to be forced alive at gun point. I want to be back in a sprawling unfamiliar city, forced to go at it alone, forced to rely on nobody but myself. I want to be as far away as possible from everything familiar to me.
There is a genuine peace and love felt in San Francisco. It’s mind-boggling, especially to someone from such a diverse yet divided area such as Detroit, to see so many different cultures, classes, lifestyles, and colors come together in one bright, beautiful city and live in harmony. Perhaps it’s because I only caught a glimpse of it as an outsider, or perhaps it was because I was really stoned, but the human connection there is like nothing else I’ve experienced.
I imagined myself coming home and listing my successes and failures of the trip. When going through the list in my head, I came across one glaring oversight: I’ve not made any meaningful human contact. I was forced to either live with that failure (as I have so many times before), or to do something to change it. I settled in once again in Golden Gate Park for my final day in the city. The sky was completely clear in the park for the first time since I’ve been there. The kickball teams were playing, the drum circle was in full effect, and people all around were soaking up the beautiful day. After spending the next few hours fully experiencing the world around me, I decided it was time to right my wrong and meet some people. I was ready to leave the park, and in preparation for my flight, had to rid myself of a few things. I found a group of people around my age a little bit up the hill who would clearly benefit from my gift. I sat down and said my hellos, and set down my goods. The gladly obliged and gave me a gift in exchange. We made a little small talk and shortly thereafter, we all parted ways. They wished me good luck on my journey.
I left the park with a smile, though I knew I would miss it. I went to the McDonald’s across from the park on Haight and as I was walking out, a few of the people from the group were walking in. I held the door for them then walked down the stairs. As I was walking down the street, one of the guys stepped back out of the door and called out to me, “Have a safe flight.” This simple gesture sealed it for me: San Francisco is where I belong. If I can’t fit in there, I’ll never fit in anywhere.
Goodbye for now, San Francisco. I’ll be home again soon.
It’s 3:48AM, I’m drunk, I’m tired. But alas, I just finished Day One’s recap, and I feel the strong desire to post the details of my Day Two adventures in an easy-to-digest format. Ready?
Oh, how I love this place. When it felt like London’s winter had fallen in, I decided to high tail it out of the park. Emerging back on Haight St., I was presented with this:
Imagine being stoned out of your mind and seeing this random endless stream of bikes. Wow. That was a mindfuck. I stood there capturing video on my camera in sheer awe. It was beautiful, really.
As I stood there watching the above scene, “God Only Knows” came on my MP3 player, and I thought that I might have been in heaven. In fact, I sat there recording this scene while pressing the earphone up to the mic on the camera, as a sort of sound track. Stoner logic rules.
As it turns out, my procrastinating ass missed the Alcatraz tour that I had paid for and reserved for 6:10PM sharp. I overestimated the promptness of MUNI and ended up missing the target by…a lot. I instead made a quick stop over to the Virgin Megastore, as I had never been, then promptly headed down Market St. to purchase tickets for Bob Saget’s performance at the Warfield.
Since it was about time for doors to open and I had my unallowed camera with me, I headed back to the Sir Francis Drake to clean out my pockets. On my way back down Powell, I stopped and picked up two slices of chicken barbeque at a pizza/Asian food joint. I then continued down Powell to Market and headed to the Warfield. After having my ticket checked, I placed myself at a somewhat empty table on the main floor. Not long after that, the previous occupants of the table, who had been up purchasing drinks when I arrived, returned to the table. I made acquaintances with them and their friends who showed up not long after. We had a good chat about our hometowns, comedy, and whatnot.
The show was rather entertaining. It was great to see Bob Saget in an entirely different light from that which one is normally accustomed to. He was pretty funny, though I wouldn’t say “hilarious,” per se. He relied mostly on vulgar language and humor rather than material that was actually funny ha ha. It was extremely entertaining nonetheless, and I’m sure I would have enjoyed it far more had I consumed more alcohol.
After the show, I headed back to my hotel to find a decent bar to hang out at. When all else failed, I decided to hit up the Crazy Horse Gentlemen’s Club, which was next door to the Warfield. I had never been to a strip club before, and it was 11:30PM and I had nothing else to do. Hey, why not? It was quite entertaining, no doubt. I walked in to a room full of scantly-clad women, old, lonely men, and a solid concentration of d-bags, and picked a seat somewhat far from the stage. As the night progressed, and more strippers tried to work me into a lap dance, I moved closer to the stage.
As the night progressed, one very determined stripper approached me for a lapdance. She cast some sort of spell where I was completely unable to say, “No thanks,” so I happily obliged. Hey, you only live once. So we hit up the ATM, went to the back area, and partied for a bit. It was quite an expensive, enjoyable experience. There was still a depressing, desperate air about it, but fuck it, I’m doing what I want to do. I’m living.
Around 2:30AM, I decided I was pretty damn beat. I headed up Powell, stopped at the Walgreen across the street from the Drake, purchased some snacks, headed to my bed, and assed the fuck out. That concluded Day Numero Uno.