Ah, El Rio. One of our favorite Friday Happy Hour places. Cheap drinks! Friendly staff! Smoking patio! And an outdoor altar dedicated to buddha, the virgin guadalupe, mickey mouse, and Carmen Miranda. Sure, sometimes you get panhandled by people playing pool. But sometimes you get a whole growers jar of bud for just watching some bitches purse. However, if you ever decide to take advantage of the $3.50 nachos they sell on weekends, you will surely thank me every day until you die, because the woman who makes them is SHEER MAGIC.
Of course, whenever we receive our nachos, we make sure to shower her with plenty of praise.
The proper procedure for consuming the magic nachos of magiclandia are as follows:
So, it was Yolanda’s last month in the Bay Area, and she wanted to visit all her favorite places, and this meant a field trip to the Big Gay Russian River.
“Do you think there’ll be any river left?” I asked, getting into the car. “y’know. California Drought.”
“We’ll see. Hopefully enough to splash around in at least.”
When we arrived at our destination, we parked in the same place we parked last year when we visited the Big Gay River–near a bar and grill which had steps leading down to a flat grassy area which leads to a trail which leads to the riverbanks.
Unfortunately, the way down to the riverbanks was cluttered with a bunch of stupid signs from the restaurant, all of which we totally ignored.
After all, we did this exact same thing last year when we went with Yolanda’s ex wife and ex wife’s friend Jess. And Jess had been going to this place for years. “Ah, they just put those up to scare people,” she said.
So, we followed the trail and shambled down the riverbank to a little spot where we set up camp. Then, we stripped down to our suits, took a few wizard bong rips, and then waded into the water.
“Man, the river is almost gone!” cried Yolanda.
“Does it get any higher than waist level?”
“I don’t think so. Ew, there’s weird mushrooms floating in the water! And fish poop!”
“It’s the kombucha river” I shouted. “Hey, I wonder if we could bottle this river and sell it at a health food store in the probiotic section.”
As I marched down the length of the river like a gladiator, I felt fortunate to have my trusty water socks on to protect me from whatever evil things were lurking at the bottom of the river. And they most certainly were there, just waiting for me.
I have traumas. Because of this incident from my childhood, which took place at my Grampas Cabin:
Ever since then, I’ve been fearful of swimming in anything but a hyper-chlorinated pool. After the leech incident, I wore jelly shoes until they went out of style. Then I wore flip-flops. Then I discovered the magic protection water socks.
I walked about two blocks up the river, still only reaching about waist high. It was some bullshit. At some point, I ducked down into the water so my shoulders were covered.
I then proceeded to “run” in the water, clawing the kombucha mushrooms and dead fish poops like I was some sort of toxic avenger animal. Reliving my old track and field days from childhood.
“Dude, this is actually a really good workout!” I shouted to Yolanda. “Even better than swimming. I’m running! IN the water!”
“Hey man. You know what would be cool? If they invented a machine at the gym where you can run in the water.”
“They have that,” said Yolanda. ” It’s called a treadmill.”
“No dude, this is different. Like a treadmill, but with stuff added to it for resistance”
Struck with inspiration, I crawled out of the water and drew up the plan:
After awhile, Yolanda and I got hungry and went up to the bar and grill place to have a hot dog.
After we finished lunch, we shambled back down to our spot, we were immediately struck deaf by the barking of an angry, tweaked out dude who resembled Sloth from Goonies, except with more ear hair.
“Get the fuck out of here!” He shouted. “This is MY PROPERTY!!!”
“Whoa dude. he’s having a bad day.”
We continued to walk down to our spot.
Okay, chill. Even though there were about 1,000 signs up at the bar and grill saying “no beach access”, there were absolutely no signs along the trail or riverbank that said it was private property. None.
We continued to edge down to the riverbank.
Yolanda is definitely someone you want around if you’re getting yelled at by an angry tweaker. That is, she doesn’t take any shit from ANYONE. And she’s not afraid to fight nasty when the situation calls for it. As a chilly, conflict-avoidant Northerner, I highly admire that.
In an instant, the tweaker backed down like a dog getting a bop to the snout.
“He’s full of it.” Yolanda said to me. “ There’s no signs down here saying this is private property.”
“Just what I thought,” she whispered to me. “Stop packing up your shit, we’re staying right here.”
And then, the angry man drove away on his ATV.
Time for some processing.
Seeing as we were in the clear, Yolanda relaxed and went for another wade in the mushroom river with Fozzi. I continued working on my ultimate workout invention sketch.
About 20 minutes later, the angry tweaker man came back, this time with his old lady-a woman who looked just as ravaged from mainlining sudafed as he looked.
“Where exactly is the property line?” asked Yolanda. “That’s what I’m not clear about.”
“See, I told you they was difficult,” murmured the man.
And then, through the din of her screeching, across the river, we heard voices. It was a gathering of young, attractive scantily clad people, on the opposite bank, waving to us. To us?? TO US!!
“Do you own that property across the way? Where those kids are waving?” Yolanda asked.
“No Ma’am, that’s a private resort beach”
“Let’s go,” I said. “Let’s get away from the scary people and join their party.”
And so, two emmisaries from the young and attractive camp, sent some friendly sea creature floaties over our way, and helped us load all of our stuff.
And then, we crossed the river. Feel free to play some victory music during this part of the story. Also note: This is the only part of the story in color.
Once we arrived, we laughed at our good fortune. There was sand! Happy young people offering us beer and food! (note: not all young people suck.)
And so, we sat down in the lawn chairs under a shade tent, and popped a beer, gazing across the river at the scene of our grisly trespassing crime. The other shore now seemed forbidding, rocky, and completely uninhabitable.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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).
Watching the entire two seasons of Ali G at Yolanda’s house.
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.