Monthly Archives: September 2015

Spaz Attack @ The Royal Cuckoo

Ah, The Royal Cuckoo. Mine and Yolanda’s  favorite end-up spot in San Francisco, on a typical Friday hang-out evening. It has a live jazz performer, an extensive record collection, ratty chairs, and is festively lit like Jame Gumb’s (The serial killer from Silence of the Lambs) bedroom.  On some evenings, you can even meet King Cobbler (a real local celebrity) and he can hook you up with some cobbler from the back of his truck! In many ways, The Royal Cuckoo reminds me of my parents basement.

Anyways, here we are, Yolanda and I, on a typical Friday night about 10:00 PM. Dig it.

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All I had was one task. ONE SIMPLE TASK. And yet, because I’d just inhaled an industrial strength death roach  prior to entering the bar,  my brain was more interested in soaking up stimuli than remembering things. I estimated I had about 5-10 minutes to wait in line to order a drink whose name I’d already forgotten.

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Bongos!

The bad bad news: Yolanda is moving away in one month. The good news: She scored a sweet one- bedroom flat sublet for her last month here, right next to Dolores park, and other things that are awesome. The best part of all of this is she’s now got a ROOFTOP to hang out on. SAN FRANCISCO WAS MADE FOR ROOFS. bongos1bongos2bongos3bongos4bongos5

Ro Sham Bo X Infinity!!!! @ El Rio

Proof that Yolanda and I are MAGIC TELEPATHY TWINS.

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Trippin Balls @ Dore Alley

So Yolanda called me up late Sunday morning and asked do I wanna go to the Dore Alley Street Fair with her?

Normally I dislike street fairs, carnivals, festivals, and anywhere that large crowds gather to walk slowly in the sun. However, this  particiular Street Fair held the promise of one thing near and dear to my heart: hot, half-naked men.

Speaking of….I’d just spent the previous evening engaged in my once-a-year activity called getting “laid”. Despite the fact that I had only 2 hours of sleep the night before, and had nothing in my belly but 5 hour old spunk, I  agreed to join her on this special adventure.  That is how dedicated I am to things near and dear to my heart. 

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When we  arrived at Dore Alley, I caught my breath  as a shimmering  herd of leather daddies glided by us  like gazelles. I inhaled the luscious smell of testosterone, silicone and smegma. My previous nights activities had  not only NOT extinguished my libido, but activated it  even more. I was hot, heaving.  A wanton woman.   A fire clam on pube island.

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Not only that, but there were NO WOMEN ANYWHERE IN SIGHT.  Yolanda and I were the only  bitches  for blocks. It was our fantasy island.  

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We perched  near a fence, and adjusted our eyes to the gaping rectal cavity of Sodom .  Masters and slaves. Hot cops. whippets, fuckpuppets and sailors. Ball gags! Hair!  Spurs, spunk, and golden showers.

And of course, in any crowd, there’s always the hopeful and  the hungry.

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For the record,  Yolanda is a major dykemo who dresses like a 12 year old boy. But here’s a secret: Yolanda is actually more obsessed with dick than I am. I DON’T KNOW WHY. In fact, it’s  good we’re not both straight because we’d probably be fighting over the same sweaty dudes who look like the wolf man.

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Onward.

In the middle of debriefing Yolanda on my previous night’s activities with a hunky carpenter, we were interrupted by someone selling some weird-ass cookies.

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Maybe I was too distracted by all the blowies going on in every corner.  Maybe it was the heat or my pants on too tight.  But I was only  very dimly aware  that the  half cookie I ate was loaded with industrial medical grade chronic.  

At first I felt nothing but the sky going a little bluer. How fun!

Then, I felt nature calling and made my way to the port-a-johns, marvelling once again at the furry, oiled beauty of the male body.

When I exited the john, I was aware of being  very extremely  high all of a sudden. As I walked back through the sea of beef, I began to quietly hallucinate that all of these homos were actually lusting after me. Me!  Even the ones who were getting handies in the corner. YES EVEN THE ONES getting buttplowed while singing liza minelli songs. ESPECIALLY THEM.  One by one, they gathered in a multi-dick salute.

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When I returned, I caught a glimpse of my reflection  in Yolanda’s sunglasses. Over the last 20 seconds I imagined I was so utterly sexually potent I could bring every homosexual to salute me with his junk.  But upon further examination, I could see the truth: I was nothing but a sad sack of guts. The crud of the earth. A saggy pair of bag tits, with a fist for a head.

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And that, ladies and gentleman,  was my last fully formed thought for the afternoon. Bye bye!  The next four hours occurred as faint, rainbow-stained  snapshots in a  photo album I’m only able to access in times of extreme sleep deprivation, or in high altitudes.

Side note: even though I was in the floaty bye-bye world,  Yolanda showed no apparent sign of being high except she swore she saw Kenny Rogers everywhere

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Other things in the rainbow-stained photo album:

Going to Sparky’s diner for fries, and getting lost coming back from the bathroom, wandering into the kitchen by accident WONDERING HOW TO GET BACK.

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Buying a painting of flying bicycles from a homeless guy on Market and Church street who died two years later. (Note: This painting still hangs in my room and I still think it’s awesome).

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Watching the entire two seasons of Ali G at Yolanda’s house.

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Taking a break from watching Ali G every few moments  and noticing the street art I bought AS IF I SAW IT FOR THE FIRST TIME!!
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After we finished  both 2 seasons of Ali G, and watched some old Duran Duran videos, I was still high as shit. Yolanda was tired. She was ready to take a nap. Which meant it was time for me to make the daunting treck home.

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