"Shenanigans Volume VIII"

As it usually goes...some random things I've been thinking about lately...hope you enjoy...

…IT doesn’t happen often, but once in a while I do run into people who have a kid. I know it’s hard to believe since not many children frequent dive bars and fantasy baseball drafts, but amazingly I do try to reach the surface of the real world for a breath once in a while. It is always the same thing when I ask their age. “Billy is 9 weeks, 44 weeks, 100 weeks, etc.” Would it kill them to just let me know their age, say Billy is 1, 2, or 50? I’m not a mathematician, nor do I carry around my abacus in my back pocket, so I would appreciate just hearing the age, nothing more, and nothing less, instead of tying my head in knots.

“Oh wow, Mikey is a beautiful child, so how old is he?”

“Mikey is 412 ½ weeks, yes he is lovely isn’t he?”

“Great so he’s like, uh lets see, 4 times 9, carry the one, subtract the 6, add 0, hold on I need a break, ok times the square root of pie, divide the 1, alright so he’s… uh 7?”

“Yup that’s right!”

Listen, I don’t go around telling people I’m 1,456 weeks old, so why should you? All I’m asking for is a fair chance here…

…LAST week while driving through San Francisco, lost, which often I find myself doing by the way, I unexpectedly happened upon the Castro – the homosexual area of the city for those who don’t keep up with their sexual orientation geography. This is a place free from most homeless, however the ones you see also seem to share the same orientation as the roof-covered area inhabitants. Immediately, I reacted and reached for my stereo, turning down the new Coldplay album that was blaring out of my speakers, just like a white guy driving through the heart of the ghetto turning down his rap music. In the ghetto this move is done in efforts to deflect attention from pugnacious gang members nearby, poised and ready to put their game of Craps game on hold, and make your trip to the ghetto your last. In this case, however, the terrifying gang member was in the form of a flaming transvestite dressed in butt less leather chaps poised and ready to take a run at my manhood as soon as the sounds of my far-from-manly Coldplay album entered his hearing vicinity. I think I’d rather take my chances with the gang member, and that is why I felt it was best to keep “Viva La Vida,” at it’s lowest decibel possible to remain inconspicuous and safe out of harms way. I’m not really sure what to do if I ever came across a transvestite gang member, but I suppose I’d just turn on some death metal or something, otherwise I’d really be in for it…

…DOES anyone know how seagulls make it up to Lake Tahoe, keeping in mind Lake Tahoe is 6,000 feet above sea level and the key part of their name is “sea”gull? It really is mind-boggling. Are these itinerant birds fighting wind, rain, sleet and snow to accomplish what the Donner party could not, leaving their life at sea behind? I’ve got to be honest I’m not even mad at these birds; I’m actually extremely impressed. Wouldn’t Lake Gulls be more appropriate though? These are the things I think about at night…

… IS there any reason that people are still wearing wristwatches? Have they not realized that they carry an apparatus that displays the time digitally for them, called a cell phone? I asked my buddy who wears a watch why he wears it and he said so he could tell the time. When I asked him what time it was he said he didn’t know because the hands stopped moving two years prior so he checked his cell phone… “So let me get this straight, the main function of the device is essentially rendered useless, but yet you still wear it,” I pestered him. “It’s a nice watch, ok leave me alone,” he responded, as he fiddled with the face of the watch and the cheap plastic covering popped off…

"A Breath of Un-Fresh Air"

On the way up to Lake Tahoe a couple months ago I passed by a sign that was dedicated to a noble man of the law. Everyone has seen these signs- you know the ones cities feel that naming a freeway after their local hero is the appropriate tribute to someone who has given their life to defending the innocent? For example, Pablo Escobar Memorial Expressway?

Gymnasium for a famous athlete-ok I get it.

A firehouse after a brave fireman-yeah makes sense.

Even a garbage dump after a dedicated garbage man I can justify, but a freeway?

What is next; Paul J. McGuilicutty Memorial outhouse, for a famous plumber?

These disgusting, trash-infested, stress-causing concrete monstrosities spread out across America have been the cause of middle fingers, god-faring individuals turning into road rage maniacs, accidental deaths, decapitations and hair pulling, steering wheel head banging, dashboard smashing traffic, but yet towns feel freeways are the appropriate way to honor these vigilantes?

At least the sign on the 80 freeway on the way to Tahoe finally had things figured out. Instead of naming the freeway after their idol of the law, they named a bridge after him. The sign read “Richard “Fresh Air” Jansen Memorial Bridge,”- next exit. I’m not going to pretend to know what sort of man “Fresh Air” Jansen was, but I’m pretty sure he wasn’t the guy who drove around a twenty year-old Volkswagen van, seven years removed from its last smog check thus frequently sending massive pollution into the atmosphere.

A babbling brook, birds chirping, and a newborn fawn feeble enough to barely stumble to get a drink of cool, clear water is what I was picturing in my mind for the location of “Fresh Air,” Jansen Bridge. It brought an amiable smile to my face and butterflies to my belly. This would be a place where animals, humans, and an inebriated David Hasselhoff could come and enjoy nature in a harmonious blend of peace. It wouldn’t matter if you were a black, white, purple, green or a pantieless Lindsey Lohan high on narcotics and whiskey. “Fresh Air” Bridge would bring everyone together to forget their troubles and to a state of tranquility.

I was coming closer to the exit, and the butterflies raced in my stomach like a four-year old with ADHD in a candy shop. My window was down and the cool autumn breeze softly blew my hair, sending me to a state of peaceful comfort. Off in the West, the hot sun was setting behind a mountain, creating a magical picturesque array of light pink, blue and orange causing the air on my arms to stand at attention and send a chill of happiness down my spine. It was serenity at its finest.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked…

And then I saw it.

There in front of me, in all its glory and beauty was Richard “Fresh Air,” Jansen Memorial Bridge.

There were no newborn fawns to share in the excitement.

There were no pine trees blowing every so softly in the autumn breeze, to parlay my chill of happiness.

There was no crisp breathe of nature to inhale.

Instead, I inhaled the fumes from a Volkswagen van ahead of me as traffic slowed to a stop - not to get a better look at the bridge, but to check out some redneck who had gotten out of his pickup truck to take a leak on the side of road.

There, about ten feet from the freeway, and placed strategically under massive power lines stood Richard “Fresh Air” Jansen memorial bridge, so if one were to stop and actually visit the bridge they could place on bets on what would kill them first – car exhaust, or radiation from the power lines.

If there were ever such thing as a street gang of power lines, this power line would have been the Tony Soprano of the power lines. This thing stood about what appeared to be 1,000 feet in the air with lines heading to it from every direction. If anyone were to stand directly on the bridge they would probably start growing an arm from their earlobe due to the massive radiation emanating from these lines.

The bridge itself was about ten feet by ten feet, erected about one foot above brown, rat infested marsh lands.

My tranquility quickly dissipating and gave way to disappointment.

Somewhere in the distance a dog urinated on a tree…

I’m pretty sure it wasn’t what “Fresh Air” Jansen quite had in mind…

Shenanigans Volume VII

The Night Before New Year’s Edition…

Well, New Year’s Eve is upon us again, and just like probably no one else, I’ll be off to my first New Year’s Eve wedding of all things. Believe it or not, I am looking forward to the festivities, mostly because of the couple getting married and it should be a great time. At first it definitely seemed a bit odd having a wedding on New Year's Eve, but, since 2008 has been such a nightmare, I would be happy picking up goat droppings at the local petting zoo, at the strike of midnight, if it means the end of this horrendous year. My peers however? Not quite buying the rationale as the last three weeks it has been a constant barrage - “What are you doing for New Year’s? A wedding? What! Are you serious? On New Years? That’s really weird.” Those were my thoughts as well when I initially received the invite, but then I thought back to last year… After a far-from-stellar evening at a Lake Tahoe restaurant, magically transformed into a twenty-dollar cover cheesy nightclub, I spent the remainder of my inebriated evening in the back of my Tacoma truck in seven-degree weather, packed in snuggly with my roommate Tony awaiting a tram that never arrived. So… ultimately what am I holding onto right? Even more exciting was the last three months of battles I had with my Mother who exclaimed I embarrassed our family when I asked if I could bring a date to the event. (She too will be in attendance). Apparently this is heavily frowned upon in the wedding world, but me being an ex-fraternity member, lowly peon and a sorry excuse for a mature and classy existence, had no idea. “They already have the hall reserved, you can’t bring anyone,” was her rationale. I guess she figured I’d be inviting a 390-pound manatee-like, beast of a female who wouldn’t be able to fit through the door, thus requiring the hall to be expanded to meet my date’s square- footage requirements. Needless to say I’ll be at a wedding alone on New Year’s Eve this year but at least my Mom will be available to take Tony’s place should the tram decide not to show this year…Wow, this just went from bad to worse…

And now to the blog…

As usual…some puns, tally-hoo and other nonsensical gibberish that should put you to sleep faster than a box of Nodoz…

I’m pretty sure I have a symptom that is common among many ex-Fraternity members, or even your average college student. It’s commonly known as PFS (Post Fraternity Syndrome). After a college career of frequent exchanges, parties and gatherings that were always set up with some sort of theme in mind, I am forever scarred for any rendezvous in the outside world and even six years later, I find myself in utter disarray. Symptoms include being unable to casually invite people over for a beer without a specific reason such as an 80’s night, a Wild West theme or a Dress like your favorite Boy Band member event. (I generally chose Lance Bass obviously). Every drinking juncture basically has to have some sort of theme or purpose, otherwise you are unable to enjoy the evening and end up becoming an inhospitable outcast pouting in the corner. If you too are noticing any of the aforementioned symptoms, you may also be suffering from PFS. I’d like to blissfully exclaim that there is a splendiferous elixir for this horrific condition, giving way to a gloriously jovial ending to this blog post, but alas, even with the greatest of scientists working around the clock, they have come up with nothing. Last weekend it got worse when my buddy invited me over for a barbeque…

“What’s the occasion? New Years isn’t for another week, so what are we talking here…?” I asked sheepishly.

“No occasion,” he responded. “Just a couple of burgers, chicken breasts, beers, you know, watch the game.”

“Great,” I replied. “I’ll wear my disco outfit, the same one I wore back in ’02 to winter formal. You have an ice luge right?”

“No, just come over, and why would I have an ice luge?” he responded completely bewildered.

“No reason…no problem, ok Steve, don’t panic, don’t panic, ok, got it - I’ll just wear my toga instead then, no worries, see you in twenty…”

And now to the streets of San Francisco… (Thought I’d throw a transition in these things, since now they feel like you’re trying to follow two teenage girls gossip about last Monday’s “The Hills,” episode, changing the subject faster than Paris Hilton coming out with new sex tapes)

...I drive by a bar every day on my way home from work called "Stud Bar." For some reason there is a giant gay flag on the roof to let people know it is a gay bar just in case the name of the bar (Stud Bar), and freshly painted purple exterior wasn't enough for all of us stupid straight guys out there to it figure out. Maybe a giant statue of a man in leather butt less chaps might be in order just in case the enormous flag and “Stud Bar” aren't enough for people to put two and two together...

...For any tourists visiting San Francisco, the trolley provides riveting excitement, a story to tell your Grandkids and the high percentage potential to lose one of your appendages. These slow moving vessels wind in, out, up, and down San Francisco streets as bewildered tourists hang on for dear life, with arms and legs flailing. For the local San Franciscan however, these insatiable travelers are no more enjoyable than your younger brother sticking his finger a centimeter from your arm while whining; "I'm not touching you, I'm not touching you,” after you told him to stop touching you. These riders, unaware of their surroundings, hop on and off like they are getting on and off “It’s A Small World,” at Disneyland. The only difference is an amiable Donald Duck jubilantly directing you to the exit is replaced by a surly, inebriated mendicant in a mayonnaise and whiskey stained tank top hitting you up for loose change. While some of the same rules as a Disney Land ride may apply (please keep hands and feet inside at all times, or in this case- don’t allow the homeless chap to drop his pants at the same moment your trolley slowly passes by), they are rarely enforced, creating difficulty for drivers trying to pass a trolley which is moving at about 1 mph by the way, without decapitating, maiming or removing a leg of an oblivious rider. Once the passengers actually get off the trolley, (usually about fifty minutes from when they jumped on, but yet just three blocks away due to the Trolley's snail pace), they hurriedly exit onto the street. With no Donald Duck pointing the way, somehow unaware that they are actually on a busy city street and not exiting Peter Pan’s “Never Never Land,” they quickly turn from curious tourists to Grand Theft Auto IV pedestrians, forced to toss their cameras and tour books into the air and dart frantically to the closest sidewalk or jump into the closest beggar’s arms for safety.

And my last observation of the blog…

…I’m really not sure how much longer I can put up with people wearing these Jesus Sandals. I think everyone knows the sandals I’m talking about – we’ve evolved thousands of years with millions of shoe and sandal styles becoming available but yet it there is always some douche bag that feels a pair of leather sandals constructed with seventeen or more straps is the perfect way to compliment his far-from-attractive outfit of khaki shorts and untucked dress shirt? Where are we the Roman Coliseum during a lion vs. man battle or at the last supper with the disciples? Buy some newer looking sandals already! The good news is that these sandals have to have been recycled, reused and resold all for thousands of years, I’m thinking from the same cow, which is great for the cow animal rights activists out there…

Til Next Time… Happy New Years…I’ll be busy dancing with the Mother at the wedding while the rest of you hussies and lads are partying it up at some Vegas nightclub. Pour out a fifteen dollar splash of cranberry and vodka for me…

"Shenanigans Volume VI"

…Christmas is yet upon us once again. In past years I would look forward to basketballs, video games and Matchbox cars, but at some point that all changed. Now my Christmas list is made up of practical, and boring gift ideas, like spatulas, cuisinarts and most importantly boxer shorts. I don’t think I’ve bought a pair of boxers or socks for, well ever. Every year my Mom will ensure my socks and underwear collection gets replenished and if she doesn’t I’m essentially screwed, thus forced to wear the same pairs for another year. I’m not sure if I’m alone on this, since now that I think about it, my Mom buying my underwear is actually pretty disturbing…

…Why is it that I can play seven full court basketball games in the blazing hot sun and not be tired or crippled with aches and pains, but yet fifteen minutes shopping with a girlfriend and I’m ready to check myself into the closest convalescent home due to back pain, aching joints and major fatigue? I might break a decent sweat on the court, but at a mall after just several minutes I’m sweating like an antelope being chased by a cheetah and rashes start forming. I can literally go only ten minutes before fatigue sits in. At thirty minutes my body is a useless piece of jelly and I have no choice but to sit down and rest. I think it is built in men’s DNA to not be able to handle the strenuous act of shopping. In caveman times it was probably the same for men as they dreaded trudging through the forest with their woman stopping at every tree as the female browsed for the right bark for the inside of their cave…

…A few weeks ago I went to eat lobster at a local seafood eatery. There, at the restaurant’s entrance was a tank containing about twenty live lobsters, or as I like to call it - a death row tank housing the swimming dead. For these death row inmates however, there are no chances for appeals, no lobsters picketing outside their tank protesting their impending demise, or pardons from government officials. And unlike the walking dead, found on death row who receive either lethal injection, poisonous gas or death by electrocution, these unfortunate crustaceans receive their death sentence in the form of death by boiling thus creating a hysterical scream bellowing from the unsuspecting recipient upon entrance into the scalding water. I’m no animal rights activist or anything, but would it really ruin our lobster eating experience if we simply killed these lobsters, say five seconds before dipping them in scorching hot water causing an animal that previously makes absolutely no sounds to all of a sudden scream out in agonizing pain? Can’t we maybe slam a cuisinart on them, then throw them in the pot or something first to reduce their suffering? I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to notice a difference in taste. I can’t recall a single time I’ve been out in a boat on the ocean and I heard a scream coming from the depths below only to hear my surly fishing buddy explain, “That son, is the sound of the lobster. If you listen closely you can hear their mating call - so beautiful you think you’re listening to Tony Bennett.” These are animals that make absolutely no sounds during their lifetime, then all of a sudden incur such horrific torture, that they grow a pair of vocal chords?

… It is always fun to get a haircut with a buddy because you always try and stick him with the overweight, smelly hairdresser or homosexual guy. Something very strange happened last week for me. I got stuck with a straight guy! I know what you’re thinking – much better than a gay guy right? The answer my friends, is no. I would actually prefer a gay guy than a straight guy. At least with the gay guy you know where he’s shooting from, but with a straight guy it’s like having fifteen minutes of accidentally seeing your straight friend naked in the locker room. Awkward to say the least. It is really awkward having a straight guy shampooing your hair then cutting your hair all the while trying to act cool and talk about how the Colts are going all the way this year. If you don’t believe me have your best straight buddy give you a neck massage for just five minutes then report back to me. Sure he’s not trying to get in your pants, but if he’s not trying to get in your pants why is he shampooing and cutting your hair? Straight guys can now handle getting hit on by gay guys but if there is one thing that is awkward is a gay guy pretending he’s straight and then hitting on you. You know what else is awkward? A straight guy shampooing your hair in case I didn’t mention that yet. If you’re gay pretending to be straight so you can stealthily unsuccessfully flirt with straight guys I’m pretty sure we are onto you. Talking about the last time you had your way with your girlfriend, talking one inch from my face while having one arm around me and one pressed on my left butt cheek does not convince me your straight…At first I was weirded out by gay guys hitting on me, but now I almost get offended when they don’t hit on me. What the hell, I think to myself, what’s wrong with me, why aren’t you hitting on me? I all of a sudden turn into a jealous schoolgirl. Oh yeah because I’m straight…

"You Have Nice Legs!" - A Tale of a Young Boy's Journey on S.F.'s Muni System

If you haven’t had the pleasure, or displeasure rather of taking a San Francisco Muni bus then you are truly missing out. The experience may parallel a trip from the courthouse after a guilty verdict to the local jailhouse, however a paltry entrance fee of $1.50 provides you enough entertainment to make a trip on Muni the best entertainment bargain in America.

The first thing I noticed as I entered the steel loony bin on wheels on Union street one fateful afternoon was the inscrutable stench of BO that seemed to be seeping through seats, metal and fabric creating a surround sound of odor. I think if I had been standing with a box of rotten eggs in a pile of cow manure I would have been able to breathe with more ease. I was one of only two people on the bus so I found it rather perplexing that a smell that would cause a rabid, outraged skunk to hold up the white flag and scamper to safety was still lingering. How bad does someone have to smell to have their stench emanate on a moving vehicle with open windows long after they’ve departed? Is there any sort of equation for the smelly madness? Say, for instance, if you don’t shower for three days, then your smell lingers for twenty minutes? Four days gets you thirty, and so on and so forth?

After a few stops a few more riders sauntered onto the bus with each character more eccentric than the next. I liked to think I was the most normal on the bus, but that was really only because I was the only one with at least thirty percent of my teeth.

Finally a rider got on with not only all of his teeth but he seemed to have an excessive amount of teeth. This guy had absolutely no upper lip and what appeared to be twice as many teeth as the standard human. His teeth had swallowed his upper lip somehow and it basically went from teeth directly to nose. Despite the man’s somewhat deformities I quickly realized it was a toss up between myself and him for most normal rider on the bus and again that was only because we had at least thirty percent of our teeth.

Just as I was planning my next move as lone supremacy on the bus the doors opened and gave way to what seemed like fifty Asian women, all over the age of ninety. I quickly gave up my seat to accommodate the Omaha beach-like surge of ladies, but not before I was lambasted up against the side of the handicap seat rendering my extremities useless for the impending take off. (My seat had been long overtaken like a swarm of ants overtaking a melting Sir Issac Lime Otter Popsicle on the street with not a single thank you from the cult of ladies). The bus took off and I went face first into the bus window as my hands finally were yanked free just not in time to cushion the blow. That was experience number one.

The second time I took Muni I was not only determined to keep my hands in a safe place, but I was actually excited. To most decent individuals the experience above would cause them to not only never take the bus again, but try to run every Muni bus off the road at every chance they got. Not me. I was excited to give it another go. Some might call it sick, others would call it…sick as well, but I thought it was hilarious.

This time the bus smelled a lot better than the first. Don’t take that the wrong way, it still smelled close to a couple of rotting yams left out in the sun, but anything was better than the BO from the first time. I took a seat near the front and instantly the pandemonium ensued. Down the row and across from me a young lad found a dirty battery on the bus floor. Instead of kicking it aside as any normal person would do he proceeded to pick it up, inspect it and then place it directly on his tongue and lick it. From there, apparently the chap felt it was a good score and passed it to his buddy next to him who proceeded to put it in his fanny pack for safe keeping. I knew from that moment this was going to be a monumental trip.

Just then the lady across from me struck up a conversation. Good…a normalton (normal person) I thought to myself, finally! After the normal pleasantries I let her know I was on my way to the Giants’ game and her response was that she doesn’t watch baseball because of the commercials. Here we go I thought, as my mental note taking record button was pressed for later recall. “That’s a new one,” I told her, trying to remain pleasant and not yell out exacerbated what are you talking about?!”

“I prefer watching the guys go play in the park,” she responded referring to the fifty-plus softball league in the marina who could barely hit the ball out of the infield. Lets see…professional baseball or a bunch of old geezers wearing knee braces who forgot that torn ACL comebacks are only for NFL running backs who are actually getting paid to play, and not for guys trying to relive their heroic little league days with dribblers back to the pitcher.

I tried desperately not to burst into insidious laughter being as this was one of the most ludicrous statements I had ever heard, but the lady was really nice and I’m not the type to rip on people to their face. (I choose to write a blog about it and post it all over the Internet instead and then not put my address anywhere on the site…it all checks out…)

“I prefer to shop,” she chimed in.

“Ah, now I see where this is going,” I responded thinking that the conversation was turning back to the side of normalcy.

“I don’t go downtown to shop though, because of the earthquakes,” she responded. (Keep in mind we were on a bus heading downtown).

“Of course,” I concluded. Downtown, earthquakes, 50-yr old softball player obsessions, it was all finally starting to come together – This lady was a nut job…

This time I offered my seat up to another older Asian women but she denied me. She was carrying three bags, a purse and a cane and she just turned away from me in disgust for some reason. I felt like the kid last picked for the fifth grade kickball team. Trust me, I’ve been rejected by plenty of girls and women in my day but when you get turned down by a ninety-year old Asian woman carrying about thirty pounds of groceries, it just downright hurts. Just as I was having my epiphany she motioned to her husband like a baseball manager calling to the bullpen for a pitching change and her groom did an Usain Bolt -sprint to claim my seat like a lion pouncing to claim his hunt in the wild. There was no thank you was sent in my direction. I felt like a street walker on the streets of Reno. I’m not a piece of seat giving meat, I thought to myself…I suddenly felt used and dirty…

The third time I took the bus ready for new adventures certain that they would again come my way and of course they did. I sat in my usual spot in the front where the action seemed to happen most. A woman, who was a city local, had struck up a conversation with a couple from Wisconsin as I struck up a conversation with three girls seating near me. These girls as well as the Wisconsin couple turned out to be the only normal people I’ve ever encountered on the bus and they were both from another state. (The girls ended up being from New York). The lady was giving the Wisconsin couple some ideas on San Francisco tourist spots when I noticed that the guy, not repulsive by any means was wearing the most hideous shorts that accentuated his absolutely pasty, un-athletic, horrid legs. They were also sparsely covered with hair. Good god, I thought to myself, that guy’s legs are absolutely grotesque. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t make it a habit of looking at the legs of over-the-hill tourists who are also male but these appendages stuck out like my Mom at a 50 Cent concert. These legs, with more crooks and twists than a mystery novel were some of the most disgusting things I’d ever seen and they made this perfectly respectable gentlemen look like a feeble hobbledehoy.

As these thoughts of disgust were emanating in my head, to my utter shock, I heard a “You have nice legs,” shoot out of the locals mouth in the direction of the Wisconsin man. (This was right in front of the man’s wife mind you). I literally almost spit out my coffee onto the floor as myself and the New York girls burst out into laughter. You would have thought the wife would have knocked some sense into that local who was hitting on her man, but quite possibly she was just in shock that those putrid legs were actually attractive to someone. She also probably assumed the woman was high on something they don’t have back in Wisconsin, so she figured it would be best just to let it slide in case the local was psychologically unstable and pugnacious.

On this trip I actually tried to give up my seat three times before anyone actually took it. First an old man crouched over like an NFL lineman getting ready for the snap wouldn’t even sit next to me in an open seat. Then I tried to give up my seat to an older woman who turned away – rejected again! This was really hitting my ego! Finally a third lady ignored me, but then motioned to her kids to take the seat. They did and then they proceeded to sit backwards on the seat and kick me in the knees repeatedly for the rest of the trip.

Once they got off I moved to the back of the bus to make a quick getaway when we hit my stop. To my chagrin at the next stop the bus driver started yelling “Back Door,” Back door!” I later learned it was because people sneak on for free through the back door, but as a straight guy living in San Francisco, hearing back door in any context is always a sign for alarm. There may have been no reason to panic at the moment, but like swimming in shark infested waters and a bloody squid is suddenly dropped in your area, you know trouble is on its way…

This fine looking specimen is not an escapee from a local zoo, former bearded lady in a traveling circus for the legally insane, or Britney Spears' new boyfriend as one might hypothesize, but rather is your average run of the mill Muni rider. This picture was taken shortly after the inebriated chap told my friend Elise she had a "luscious booty." Before any thank yous or pleasantries that you would normally exchange after a plastered and grotesque homeless guy who just made sexual comments about your rear could take place, the bus doors abruptly opened and the drunkard went stumbling out the open doors and onto the sidewalk outside, all the while speaking in a tongue formally known as drunken gibberish.

Unfortunately he could not be reached for comment following the incident, but can be sighted wherever luscious bootys are found.

Comment from Elise Jenkins...

I have to say, Steve, I'm delighted that you posted this blog. It's comforting to know that I'm not the only person being entertained, disgusted, and insulted by the odd and eccentric population of this great city. I have begun to refer to these experiences as my "San Francisco Bum/Muni Follies."

For the women out there reading this comment, I have to add a detail or two to the event corresponding to the picture. I was one of those people trying to get on the bus in the "Back Door! Back Door!" because the bus driver had stopped letting people on in the front - the bus was THAT crowded. Not only did I barely squeeze in past the fellow in the picture, my rear end - in all of its post-workout supa-tight stretch pants glory - was right in his line of sight.

This is when he began to make the scene. "My GOD that is a luscious booty!! Can I touch it? Oh pleeeease baby let me touch it. You know you want me to just grab it, jiggle it. I'd love you baby girl I'd LOOOOVE you!" At this point I'm the center of attention of a bus FULL of the 6:30pm Monday crowd. You know the one I'm referring to. It consists of the good looking suit-and-tie financial district metro-men and the Coach bag carrying, pantsuit wearing marketing girls, all of whom are laughing hysterically at the spectacle. Mind you, I'm the center of attention in a sweat soaked wife beater, my tightest, most unforgiving pair of running pants, no makeup, and dirty hair matted to my forehead. Of course this shit never happens when I'm wearing a sexy pencil skirt, having a great hair day, and my lips are freshly glossed. My only saving grace was when he fell, literally fell, out of the bus at the next stop. Elise 1, Bum 1. It's a draw.

Oddly enough, there were no posts the next day on Craigslist's "Missed Connections" for "dirty girl with luscious booty on the 38." hmm What can you do.

This, of course, all occurs the day after another bum incident. I was at the Safeway on Webster on Sunday night minding my own business, purchasing a delectable 1/2 lb of freshly sliced honey turkey at the deli counter when this homeless person approaches me and asks me for change. My initial reaction was one of bewilderment - how did a bum get into this fine establishment?! My second reaction was the same as my response to his request- "um, no." I went back to waiting on my deli turkey and typing away on my blackberry, thinking nothing more of the interaction.

Instead of saying "thank you" or grunting the typical bum-chatter "hoogly moogly" as they scuttle away to find more generous people to harass, he looks me dead in the eye and says "Why not? You got that nice teley-phone, and you got that meat. Why ain't you gots some change fo' me. Sure you got fiddy cents o sumptin."

Really? Ok. I guess he's allowed to express his opinion. It's a free country and all. So I decided I'd be best off to just ignore him. I had learned my lesson about provoking ghetto people the hard way after Saturday night's events, but that's another story. So I'm thinking "You can do it, Elise! Be the better person!"

It turns out the bum didn't take kindly to being ignored. So he proceeded to yell, yes - yell, the following: "HEY LADY! I'MA TALKIN AT CHOO!! GIMME SOME GODDAMN MONEY!!" Really?! Is this really happening to me? I'm looking around wondering why no one else was being harassed by this guy, and no one would look me in the eye. I was alone. Alone in a sea of delicious delicatessen meats and cheeses - but a storm was a-brewin and there was no turning back now. So I looked him right in the eye and told him to fuck off.

Oops. So that was definitely not the right thing to do. I looked around me - searching desperately for a lifeline. Anything! Anyone! Alas, nothing. Needless to say, this did not sit well with Sir Bum either. He looks back at me and says, and I quote, "No! No, nuh uh. F YOU white lady! F you! And you got a flat ass! Yeah dats right. You heard me b*tch. Flat. Ass."

My response? "I most certainly do NOT have a flat ass. And if I do, it's just because of these jeans. So f you, f your mom, and get the hell out of my way before I call security."

Ding ding! And we have a winner. Elise 2 - Bum 1. I yelled security, he called uncle. B*tch.

Now my only question is about my ass - is it flat or is it luscious? I guess I'll always have to wonder...

"Bounce This!"

There is only one profession with more alleged power than the President of the United states and that is a bouncer at a club. These Neanderthals, without any concept of life outside the front door of the club have somehow gotten the impression that they are the most powerful people in the universe. In their world the order of power goes...

1) Bouncer
2) Owner of club
3) DJ playing at the club
4) Bartender at club
5) Barback at club
6) Bathroom attendant at club
7) Janitor at club
8) Alley cat outside of club
9) Mouse in alley cats mouth outside of club
10) God

Standing in a line at a club waiting for a bouncer to get into some lame club is probably my least favorite place in the world. Yet I continue to do it and have no choice but to bend over and take it. (Figure of speech, I'm not actually bending over and taking anything for those literal readers out there...)

There is always one guy in your group that feels it necessary to let the bouncer know they are missing out on his business, like it will make any sort of difference in the bouncer's life. He could care less about the $12 in your pocket you intend to spend on drinks and then stiff the bartender for a tip. There aren't any customer service satisfaction surveys going out to the patrons of the bar asking them to rate their experience or anything so customer service and retaining business or R.O.I. (rate on investment) is not exactly a top priority of the bouncer. He'd just assume kick your ass then to let you into the club.

I have been in lines waiting to get into some bar that I never wanted to go to in the first place, but yet I stand and wait like a buffoon. Then just when I think I might get in, six of the bouncer's lame guy friends pop up to the front of the bar, embrace the bouncer like they are childhood blood brothers, sometimes exchanging butt slaps and the most nonsensical handshakes, and in they go. Once they are through the bouncer regains his tough guy attitude and proceeds to tell us with a straight face that the bar is at capacity. Then of course there is some impatient girl or stupid guy (probably the same one in your group who threatens to not give his business) that will ask why those guys got in when the bar is at capacity thus further pissing off the bouncer and reducing the chances of anyone getting in. Usually the response will be either no response - a complete ignorance of the question or "Oh they were in before." (That's why when they came up they embraced like they hadn't seen each other since the fourth grade). But yet you continue to wait like a moron again bending over and taking it for another twenty minutes or whenever this prehistoric, primitive gate bar keeper lets you enter his realm...

A few weeks ago I made a special trip home to change into formal clothes to get into a bar only to have a bouncer that looked like Fabio to tell me I was too casual. Too casual? I was in dress shoes and a dress shirt. What was the guy expecting a three piece suit?

Once inside, you are still not home free as bouncers also have complete Nazi-like reign over you inside as well. Any wrong move at their ignorant discretion and they'll throw you out of the joint. And the best part about it? Laws created by our forefathers, and enforced by the highest power in America somehow don't apply inside bars and clubs. For some reason bouncers have complete authority to beat the living daylights out of any poor chap at no other discretion other than their own!

I always found it funny how bouncers would throw people out of a bar for being too drunk, when it is their bartenders that keep serving the sloshes! They should know the equation by now-serving too much alcohol to one person will most likely result in some sort of irrational behavior. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out. The whole premise of the bar business is to serve alcohol. So they serve people alcohol then are surprised when they act like drunken lunatics and then have to throw them out? What did they expect Mary Poppins to all of a sudden show up? It is kind of like leading a six-year old into a candy store, offering them an unlimited supply of sour patch kids and then getting upset at them when they are bouncing like maniacs off the walls.

At a club in a certain San Francisco suburb I finally got my revenge on the ignoramus bouncer community. After ignoring demands from a bouncer on the dance floor because I was dancing in the wrong section apparently, I was manhandled out of the bar like Paris Hilton on a Friday night in a random Hollywood bedroom. I don't even think my feet were touching the ground as this pugnacious brute lifted me and literally threw me out of the club. I felt like Jazz on "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air," being tossed out of the Banks household as I went flying out the front door right in front of the bouncers in the front. If I was a football, the bouncer would have been Peyton Manning and the sidewalk Marvin Harrison as I went at least for a chains moving first down. I knew better to fight back since there would be an army of IQ-less bouncers ready to pounce and beat me to a bloody massacre pulp had I done so. Usually they find it necessary to have seven bouncers over three-hundred pounds wail on a one guy fewer than two-hundred pounds so I knew I would be outmatched. I waited outside for about five minutes, and then casually asked the front door bouncer what time the club closed. He nonchalantly said 2am and then asked for my ID. I sheepishly handed it to him, he checked it out and back into the club I went. I was astonished that this guy's short-term memory lasted about five minutes. He had just seen me heatedly been tossed out of the club, like a crab fisherman tossing an undersized catch back into the ocean, and now this idiot was letting me right back in with no questions asked. Once inside I had to keep a low profile to avoid the first bouncer who would truly squash me if noticed.

Steve 1
Bouncers 74

I did have one experience of kindness from a bouncer and it literally changed my whole outlook on life. (Yes I know most of my revelations on life come from times spent at bars...) While entering a bar in Hilton head, South Carolina a bouncer actually apologized to me for checking my ID. "Sir I'm sorry I've got to check your ID," he said, as I still remember clear as day. I literally felt like crying due to his kindness...

"Shenanigans Volume V"

...Halloween has come and gone yet again, and with each year female costumes become more scandalous. At one point, many years ago, like 1996, Halloween featured costumes like ghosts, witches and goblins, but today, those have given way to basically just one costume; a slut. The great thing about Halloween is it gives every single girl one night to give it their best shot at slutting (not a word) it up free of dress codes, pre-judgment and dirty looks from other girls (might have to double check on this one but I think you catch the drift). I also think I figured out how girls come up with their costume ideas. First they think of an animal, object, phrase, movie, etc. and then just add slut to the beginning. (Some may try to add Sexy, but they're not fooling us). For example, a police officer becomes slutty police officer; an astronaut becomes slutty astronaut and, Lindsey Lohan...well actually that is already a complete costume. You can even turn a garbage lady into a sexy garbage lady. Peel off a sleeve, pop up some cleavage and there you have it. There is one caveat for guys out there however - this also means that if you meet a girl on Halloween, she is probably putting forth her best possible attractiveness, so you are in for a shock when the cat woman you met is dressed in khaki pants and a long sleeve shirt on your first actual date. Wait a second, where is the outfit, this is bullsh*t...

...While shopping for my metal band costume, I came across a startling realization - there were people actually shopping for the same items as myself; except they were for every day use. These stores sell these items year round, and while their inventory of fishnet shirts were run through faster than normal due to myself, people are actually buying and wearing this stuff the other 364 days of the year. Amazing...

And now to the normal gibberish and far from useful forthcomings in no particular organizational order or relevance...

...Guitar hero is finally taking over our lives. The recent phenomenon which allows every uncoordinated and musically inept person to jam to a variety of rock tunes without causing glass to shatter is taking over the universe. In the past hopeful guys used to be able to entice beautiful woman over to their place with alcohol, views of the ocean, and the new Barry Manilow record, but when I attempted those three items last week I received a "Do you have guitar hero," in return. "No but I do have College Football 2006," I responded helplessly. The girl took her own cab home. Another girl was explaining to me the chords of a Whitesnake song and I was interested because a girl who knows how to play the guitar is always a plus for me. "It goes green, yellow twice and then red," she explained. "Actually I think it's a g-chord," I responded. "What's that?" was her answer, thinking that guitar hero was how real songs are made...

...I thought the best benefit about being homosexual was that you didn't have to do all the lame girlfriend things like watch Sex & The City repeatedly, frequent Bed Bath & Beyond every other Tuesday and most of all hold hands at all hours of the day. But what I've witnessed in San Francisco is nothing short of the complete opposite! There are gay guys holding hands everywhere, and making out! Most straight guys would be repulsed at the sight, but that is not why I'm outraged. I'm upset that after all they've been through, taking the audacious step of being open with their sexuality and then they don't even get to reap the benefits! I thought you didn't have to do all that relationship stuff anymore- make out in public, hold hands, etc...I thought it was just a wham, bam, thank you Man...

...The other night while walking back from getting food a boisterous, drunken gentleman was stumbling down the street yelling loudly into his cell phone. The conversation seemed to be getting very heated as this slosh was yelling expletives repeatedly and calling the recipient on the other end a "F'n Homo." "You're a homo," he un-jovially sputtered into the mouthpiece of the phone. "It must be a bad breakup," I quietly suggested to my friend. She agreed and just as we made an attempt to dodge the inebriated stumbler we heard the root cause of his contempt. "You're a homo, you picked up Brady Quinn you homo" - right...it all made sense now. Even in my fantasy football addicted state I thought this might have been a bit flippant. Calling out your friend, his wife, his mother and his nine sisters, suggesting what twisted sexual acts you'd like them to partake in on the Yahoo Sports message board is one thing, but accusing your friend of being an expletive homo on the streets of San Francisco loud enough for half the city to hear because he was the first to grab Brady Quinn off the waiver wire? That is crossing the line my friend...Or is it? I just checked Quinn's line from last Monday and it was pretty good, I'm not going to lie...

"The Mother's Rolodex"

I think its hard for older people to understand the concept of networking websites such as MySpace, Facebook and LinkedIn. Still trapped in the 1960's my Mom has a Rolodex of phone numbers (most of them outdated) the size of the bible. In fact, if Jesus was around today, dealing with the betrayal and religious persecution would be a walk in the park after a plethora of harassing phone calls from my Mom requesting updated addresses, phone numbers, and urine samples from him and each one of the disciples.

Twice a week I get calls from her asking for someone's updated number, address, or messenger pigeon route. I don't think she's caught on that most people no longer have home numbers nor do they use their home address for anything in particular. Handing out your address these days can only result in an annoying relative coming to visit, a rotting array of acorn squash in your mailbox placed there by a fantasy football rival, or a Spanish speaking nine-year old showing up on your doorstep - a result of an inebriated, two-dollar-you-call it one night stand during a road trip to Tijuana back in college.

"Papa?"

With PayPal, Cards, Evite, MySpace and unlimited online porn sites there should be no reason for any sort of card, invitation, old unwanted VHS tapes, or check arriving at my door.

My Mom also still balances her checkbook which is a concept I've never fully understood. In my opinion if someone wants to embezzle $40 a month from my account, I'm completely fine with that if that means I don't have to go through each miniscule transaction, carry the one, add the six and calculate where every penny is going.

Last week my Mom somehow compared the online business networking site LinkedIn with AIDS. (Yes the Auto Immune Deficiency one). The same disease that has killed thousands world wide all of a sudden is no different than logging onto your LinkedIn account to find other investment bankers in your area...

At first I tried to explain the concept - such as you create an account and then connect with other people who have similar jobs or maybe for looking for a new job and then you gain access so you can search their connections and so on and so forth. First she was confused because I had a connection with my cousin Debbie. "Debbie isn't looking for a job," my Mom interrogated. Once we got past the fact that you can just have an account and don't have to be job seeking I explained the networking part of the site, where you connect to others and then gain access to their connections.

"That sounds a lot like AIDs", she responded.

"No Mom, that actually is nothing like AIDs!" I responded shell-shocked.

"Well you sleep with one person, and then they sleep with another, and it's like you are sleeping with everyone," she responded.

"Mom I just don't think you are getting it."

"You should add your friend Joey, he has a good job," she suggested, starting to grasp the concept.

"Mom, I'm sorry Joey doesn't have AIDs, so I don't think I'll be adding him, sorry..." All these sites serve one general purpose and that is keeping in touch with people that you normally wouldn't have. And there is a reason you normally wouldn't keep in touch with them and that is because you don't want to! MySpace is probably the most dangerous for any sort of relationship because it allows any girl from your friend's list, most of whom you have never met to leave whatever seductive, outlandish, and suggestive comment on your page for the whole world to see before you even you. There is no judge and jury of your peers to determine the validity of the message left, just the interpretation of every visitor of your page to decipher the message to their discretion.

Maybe my Mom has it figured out actually. To this day I haven't heard of one incriminating message resulting from the retro-60's Rolodex...Hmm...I might have to cancel my MySpace account and pick up a fancy dex from my local antique store after all.