I had nothing to do last night. Not one thing on a Saturday night. So I called Joe. He was still trapped at work, hocking Manolos to the socialites, but told me to call his boyfriend, Alec, because he wanted us to become best friends. Uh, okay.
An hour later, I was sitting with Alec atop Madjool, the new trendy rooftop bar mere blocks away from my house. We sipped our mojitos, cursed the shitty waiter and gawked at the insane scene going on before us. Everyone looked perfect and was taking themselves way too seriously. We were over it, so we called Joe and announced we’d be picking him up from work and going somewhere else.
Alec and I walked to the car and headed downtown, swinging by Nordstrom’s to pick up Joe and dear Gia, who needed a ride home. Fabulous. Love Gia. So the four of us are driving along, minding our own business, having a lovely little conversation as we drive through the Tenderloin. From the backseat, Joe suddenly screams, “What’s that!?!”
There, in the middle of the street, on MY side of the car, was a woman who at first glance appeared to be wearing a bikini and moon boots. Everything seemed to go in slow motion as we realized she was sporting a mere bra and her pants were around her ankles. One hand scratched her filthy head while the other, and I don’t really know how to type this, twirled her vast expanse of pubic hair. She was covered in bruises and obviously so cracked on, she had no idea where she was or what she was doing, but that didn’t stop an elderly Filipino man from screaming at her to put some clothes on.
Stunned into silence, we slowly passed this scene which could easily have been part of a David LaChappelle photo shoot, until Joe demanded that we go around the block so as to witness the spectacle again. We responded with three hearty, “No!”s, as we headed home to Joe’s in the Haight. In a miraculous twist, we discovered parking right in front of the building. There we found an equally disturbing scene. On one side of Joe’s apartment stood his neighbor smoking weed while wearing tiny bike shorts and a mesh tank top. On the other side, I swear to god, was a gentleman prepping his arm to shoot up heroin.
“Oh my god, that guy’s doing smack. He’s doing smack right fucking there!”
Perhaps suffering performance anxiety with his new audience, the heroin guy gets up and stumbles up the sidewalk, a large hunting knife dangling from his belt.
“Jesus Christ. God Bless San Francisco.”
We bid Gia adieu and let Joe get out of his suit and tie before headed out to Polk Street. We ended up at O’Reilly’s Holy Grail, which is fabulous. I mean it. I really dig this place. It’s decked out all old school, an old medieval cathedral meets fancy restaurant and bar. There was a piano player busting out the Broadway hits and an eclectic mix of clientele. Plus, really great lighting.
“Stop checking out your hair, Beth! My god, I’ve never seen her so happy. You totally love this place.”
We decided to wander down the street to find food, none of us happy with our choice of El Super Burrito. I ordered a chicken quesidilla, which isn’t that hard to screw up. I received one flour tortilla with cheese on it, covered in red sauce, green sauce, and white sauce (we assumed it was the obvious guacamole, sour cream and salsa, but who fucking knows) and a pile of “chicken”, topped very delicately with another flour tortilla. I removed the top tortilla and we all stared at the pile of food.
“My stars, what is that?”
“I think it’s chicken.”
“You know what that looks like?”
“Yeah, human flesh.”
“More specifically, baby flesh.”
It did. It’s horrible and disgusting to say, and not that I’d know, but that’s exactly what it looked like. Alec and Joe’s food was equally appalling and we rapidly left and wandered across the street to Vertigo. Discovering $5 mojitos, we got comfy and soon, Alex and Sacha joined us. We regaled them with the tales of pubic hair lady, heroin junkie and baby flesh restaurant, frightening the people at the next table. By 11, we were bored with Vertigo and headed up to R Bar, which I’d never been to before and quite like. You have to be stunning to even enter the doors, although apparently there isn’t a IQ prerequisite.
Walking around alone with 4 guys is kind of like wearing a really obvious chastity belt, although much to Joe’s amusement, I flirted like crazy with the very hot bartender who hooked me up with el cheapo drinks. The place started to fill up rapidly with what appeared to be extras from the OC. I told Sacha to do a lap and find a chick, although apparently, they were all too skanky for him.
We sat on big leather chairs in the back, stunned with all we had seen in the past few hours.
“We’ve had a really big day.” Alec sighed.
“I know. I didn’t think it could get any more intense after Marie Calendar’s.”
Joe suddenly sat up straight. “Excuse me,” he said to a scantily clad passerby. “Is it a full moon?”
“Yeah, actually. It is.”
“Oh my god. I knew it. I totally knew it. That explains it, folks. A full moon. All the freaks come out during a full moon.”