Thursday, July 08, 2004

here comes trouble...

Zoe and I were both bored out of our minds last night, and as it was a rare occasion that Zoe didn't have to slave over the cursed costumes at Beach Blanket, we felt the need to utilize this opportunity and hit the town.
Seated on the floor of Zoe's flat with maps and tour books in front of us, we couldn't agree on where to go. We wanted an experience, you see, and had no desire to patronize our usual haunts. Thus, we spent a solid hour looking up random establishments that struck us as bizarre and experience-worthy. We decided on some place called Sherlock's, on the 30th floor of the Crown Plaza Hotel. Envisioning it as some kind of British, mystery-themed, tourist establishment, we delighted in the prospect of some sort of trivia contest or similar. We found street parking (possibly the most notable event of the evening) and walked to the hotel. The Crown Plaza is a shitty looking hotel, that smells quite similar to a dorm room refridgerator, and the staff there is mildly retaded at best. We hopped an elevator to the 30th floor and emotionally prepared ourselves for the bizarre experience we felt sure we would find.
There is no longer a Sherlock's on the 30th floor of the Crown Plaza Hotel. There is a cheezy mauve banquet room, a dumpster, and a white courtesy phone, but there is no turn of the century themed pub with fireplaces and mystery games. Fuck!
Next, we tried Harry Denton's Starlight Room. We rode the elevator with 3 gentlemen of questionable intelligence and entered the club. After being carded twice, we were told there was a $20 cover. Fuck!
We walked over to The St. Francis Hotel, as I remembered there being some sort of hoppin' club at the top, and decided we'd rather drop our $20 on top shelf liquor than pay to get our asses grabbed at the Starlight Room. As fate would have it, there was a private party there, and a Janet Reno-esque woman shoved us back on the elevator while drunkedly trying to pick up a petite, poorly dressed businessman. Fuck!
Frustrated and curious as to why god insisted we not have an experience, I recalled a bar near the Stockton/Sutter garage that always looked kinda cool. We headed over there, cursing Janet Reno and joking as to what could be wrong with this place. Well, I'll tell you what was wrong with it. It's closed for renovations, with caution tape and everything. Fuck!
Finally, ready to give up and down our booze in the comfort of Zoe's living room, we walked one last block and discovered The Irish Bank. Located in an alley off Bush Street, The Irish Bank is a pub straight from the dole lines of Dublin. Filled with drunken Irishmen and hideous women, Zoe and I had finally found our experience. We ordered our wine and cider, like the suburban wenches we are, and decided the benches outside in the alley were preferrable to the long tables of profanity inside.
Within minutes, we were surrounded by Irishmen, all having come from a Giants game and desperate to chat with random American women snobbilly sipping their libations. Michael is an electrician and fascinated by peep shows and strippers. Johnny looks like the villian in Kindergarten Cop, but is lovely and a little quiet. Emyn is gorgeous, polite, and very into the Tour de France. And Rory was the best dressed, and had a very manly handshake which I enjoyed immensly. There were various others, of course, but I didn't catch their names. There Zoe and I sat, surrounded by The Committments and attempting to decipher their drunken brogues. It was really quite marvelous.
After a few drinks and a few inviataions to do god knows what, we took our leave and laughed all the way home, debating which drunkard was the hottest. (We decided on Emyn)
I'd say we got our experience, and needless to say, I think you know where we'll be next Wednesday night.