I’m a Jinius

The Phonecall

I received the middle of the night phone call that every person dreads.

Hello? I said groggily.
Do you have a friend named Meredith? asked the voice on the other end
Uh-oh.

The Homeless

My friend Meredith and I went to San Fran last week as part of my week long trip to California. I’ve been flirting with the idea of moving to the West Coast (it’s part of my five year plan) and this trip was a test. It was going to take more than just choosing between West Coast and East Coast rap. I had to sink my teeth into the city. Get to know the denizens. The social life. And most importantly, the food.

I’m not one of those people who turns all girls gone wild when they go on vacation. I’d rather makeout with a slice of pizza than with a dude. What is wrong with me??? But I’m trying to be more adventurous so I pumped myself up for making out with random people. Alas, my inelastic need for sleep cock blocked once again. Of course, one assumes there needs to be an actual cock in order for something to be blocked. But I digress.

I spent two days in San Fran and then four days in Los Angeles. I had never been to San Fran and was excited to see this city that many New Yorkers seemed to prefer over LA for being “more real”. New Yorkers have a thing for authenticity. The grittier the better. I’m not sure why. I bet if you asked any New Yorker if they’d rather have an apartment in Nolita or in East Harlem they’d choose the former.

Well, San Fran definitely trumps New York in the gritty category. Our hotel was on the edge of the Tenderloin district–an area that probably holds the preponderance of homeless people in the U.S. or the Western hemisphere. When we asked people for directions to Eddy street, they’d say “Make sure not to turn right on that street. It’s the sketchiest street in the world.” Great, we were staying in the Chechnya of neighborhoods. Good thing Meredith and I have a combined height of ten feet.

The homeless people in San Fran are definitely more colorful than the homeless in New York. And by colorful I mean they are fucking insane. You can’t walk two feet without a homeless person screaming to themselves or asking you for change. And unlike the homeless in New York, the San Francisco homeless are more aggressive. “Why you girls gotta be so cheap?” one homeless person argued. Dear, sir, I am not cheap! I am merely frightened by your craziness! At least the degenerates in New York do a little song and dance for your money. These people just expect you to be charitable for no reason!

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a problem with the homeless(as long as they don’t approach me or ask me for money) but the juxtaposition of affluence and poverty in this city is disturbing. Maybe the mayor should spend more time addressing this issue instead of dating Hollywood actresses who deify L. Ron Hubbard.

Beet salad makes people horny

When we weren’t being accosted by degenerates on the street, we indulged in San Fran’s night life. The first night we had dinner at the esteemed Slanted Door. The views at this restaurant are insane. You are dining in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. We had a 9:30 reservation and our food arrived at 9:45. Was the kitchen trying to kick us out? The food was tasty but luke warm in temperature. Will have to try again at an hour that is not near closing time.

After dinner we had a night cap at the Clift Hotel.

The bar is gorgeous with all the oak and leather furniture. It was there this 50 year old European gent named Alex just sidled next to us and didn’t stop talking for about half an hour. I even mimed tying a noose around my neck. This usually sends the message that I am bored. He presented his theories on how beet salad makes people more gregarious. He asked if we wanted to go dancing. We declined. Then he took down our names and number.

The Curious Incident with the Nachos in the Night-Time

The next day we walked around Chinatown which is infinitely nicer than the Chinatown in New York. For starters, it doesn’t smell like dead fish. And the sidewalks aren’t dotted with loogies. We had lunch in the North Beach area that is like San Fran’s Little Italy.

We walked around Telegraph Hill and caught a glimpse of Alcatraz, then ambled toward Ghiradelli Square and Fisherman’s Wharf. Then we took a trolley back to our hotel, cascading along San Fran’s hills with the city’s skyline glimmering in the foreground. No one does night time like San Fran. The city is simply gorgeous.

Oh, and that Euro guy ended up calling Meredith and asked if we wanted to go dancing. We can never go back to The Clift Hotel.

For dinner, we went to Luna Park and ate enough food for a family of five and split a bottle of wine. And instead of dessert we had an Irish coffee. This is an important detail. Because bad things happen when I drink Irish coffee. The last time I drank Irish coffee I went to a club called Discoteque at 5 in the morning with my guy friends and I made out with an engaged man. I simply cannot handle coffee spiked with whiskey!

We were in the Mission District which is similar to the East Village in New York. There are alot of bars and young people. We went to a bar called Casanova and had vodka sodas (are you keeping tabs of the alcohol count here?). Then we went to Kilowatt and had more vodka sodas. Then Beauty Bar where we had beer and danced with a group of black men. (or were they South Asian?) Then we went to a place called The Makeout Room where strangely enough the clientele did not look like people you would want to makeout with. Then we went back to Kilowatt. And then we split up.

This was probably a bad idea. You know how in horror movies, bad things when the friends go their separate ways to find out where the strange noise is coming from? Well, this was like that. Only instead of a grisly fate we were greeted with nachos.

I got to the hotel and passed out. At about five in the morning (or was it three? I wasn’t wearing my glasses) I get a phone call. It is the front desk of the hotel. He tells me that Meredith is trying to get into the hotel room.

The next day we woke up and tried to remember how the night ended. Meredith swears that she was eating a plate of nachos in the hallway. I opened the door and was greeted by a sullen house keeper cleaning up the remnants of what appeared to be tostitos. We are still trying to figure out where Meredith was able to get nachos at five in the morning (or was it three?) We suspect that she bought a taco salad from the Carl’s Jr. that was next to our hotel.

The Homeless Convention

We spent our last day walking around Haight Ashbury. It was gorgeous outside so we headed to Golden Gate Park. Apparently I never got the memo that there was a homeless party at the park. I had never seen or smelled so many transients. In New York, the bums usually just cluster around Port Authority or are spread out over the city. In San Fran, the bums all live in this park. You can’t make this shit up.

Don’t get me wrong. San Fran is a charming city and it gets bonus points for being pedestrian friendly (score for people like me who don’t know how to drive!) I will definitely visit again. But would I move there from New York? I’m not sure. I like a city where the homeless people are friendly and don’t insult you. But it’s images like this that seduce me back to the West.