Where the Wild Things Are – Pt. 2
Saturday, December 1
4:00 p.m.
From the Hilton to the Wharf
A group of eight slightly intoxicated individuals tends to be sidetracked easily. Our original quest was from the Hilton to Fisherman’s Wharf, however, there were a lot of small bars along the way we felt obliged to investigate. Eventually we stopped for food at a Rogue brewery.
I was 70 percent drunk by this time.
“Haha, you go off percentages??” Gwen thought that was funny.
“I do. I try to stop at 80 percent because typically the momentum will propel me to 100 percent anyway.”
7:00 p.m.
Spagnolia’s
Somehow the walk to the Wharf seemed to take forever. Eventually, Mark ended up ahead of us and called to tell everyone to meet at Spagnolia’s. With no sign of Spagnolia’s, we eventually assumed he meant “Castagnola’s.”
"Can we get three Moroccan coffees please?”
Our waitress left, but returned promptly.
“Umm, I’m sorry, our bartender doesn’t want to make Moroccan coffees.”
“Oh,” I said, “does he happen to work here or just come for leisure?”
"What would you like instead?”
"Well, why don’t you just ask him what he feels like making?”
… shots … shots … more shots ….
10:00 p.m.
Hotel Rooms at The Hilton
100 percent drunk (x 8)
Four hours and three noise complaints later, all eight of us were ready to hit the clubs. (Around 2:00 a.m.)
“Is everyone ready to go?”
“Oh wait -- what about the cars?”
I didn’t look up, but whoever just spoke totally read my mind because I had JUST remembered we still needed to move the cars from our pay-to-park parking lot.
“Brad, we moved them already,” said Ashley. “Hours ago, remember?”
And with every trip like this, the time always comes where we realize we’re probably missing some time.
Damn. I was doing so well, too.
It wasn’t until the next day I was told about our noise complaints. Because, quite frankly, I had no idea they happened.
Sunday, Dec 2
3:00 p.m.
The Hilton
The underground club we went to was fun, even though I managed to obtain the grossest beer I’ve ever had; I think it was a Pabst.
The morning came and went, and by 3:00 we’d learned about a small one-hour cruise that takes you past Alcatraz. My heart lit up when I realized that this would be our official “Booze Cruise.”
Festivities started at a small bar by the water; a few shots and a few drinks definitely took the edge off the night before. We were easily back to 60 percent drunk during the cruise, some of us a bit more.
After the cruise, we headed to a tavern called Jack’s. As usual, instead of getting kicked out of every place we went (which, we rightfully should have) -- the bartenders continued to bring shots on the house. We were there for hours, and all eight of us were back to being thoroughly intoxicated.
“Chad, what time is it?” I knew it had to be really late.
“6:00.”
“Oh my god! 6:00 a.m.??”
“Uh … no. 6:00 p.m..”
What we did for the next several hours kind of escapes me. Besides pinball, $2 pool, and making friends with other patrons, the highlight of the night was definitely cramming eight people into a Polaroid photo booth. And it didn’t even break.
Eventually we headed to a small “club” (or something) called Matrix. It was about the size of my living room, and about as much fun. At the end of the night, after a mixed group of us exited a cab back at the Hilton, the cabby flagged me back over.
“Are you guys going to bed? Do you want to go to the beach?”
“Uh ... why?” I asked. “What’s at the beach?”
“Or another bar? I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Anywhere. There’s plenty to do. You want to drive around?”
I either figured a $5 tip in Frisco is a big deal, or he figured we were drunk enough to be mugged. Either way I didn’t want to find out.
Monday, Dec 3
12:00 p.m.
San Francisco Airport
Life comes at you fast. Especially if you’ve been drinking heavily for approximately two days and nights straight. Nestled into a black leather seat with an eight-ounce coffee, I decided this is heaven.
It will be another week before my brain will work right again. And it will probably be another couple months before Frisco will let us come back again. (Unless the cabbies get a vote.) But thanks to Virgin, San Francisco can now more regularly expect a nice little Vegas-style infusion of self indulgent debauchery.
Share the wealth, that’s what I say.
Precocious entrepreneur, workaholic and a rabid perfectionist Crystal Starlight knows a thing or two about getting ahead at a young age. Email her at [email protected]