What a weekend

Dear Erin,

What a weekend. If the video doesn't say it all, I have no idea what will.

In the beginning

I took it completely Yahtzee beginning last Wednesday at 1 p.m. After a lunch consisting of dirty bar food and several pitchers (at Knuckle's in Fisherman's Warf), I was officially ready for the weekend. Yes, I said, "The weekend (obviously starting on Wednesday afternoon)."

Wednesday evening found two compatriots and myself at Green's on Green Street (go figure). Our boy Serge was not around, but Rich had no issues razzing my ex-coworker dubbing her "Balboa" after she requested an application for employment at Green's...obviously not her shiniest moment, but let's be realistic: when you're unemployed, drinking beers and shots of tequila on a Wednesday night in an empty sports bar, there's not a whole lot that isn't shinier than you.

Then there were two + two (and the second two weren't worth it)

After Balboa left us -me and a close friend and fellow resident of the Polk 'Hood Outskirts- found ourselves at another watering hole on a path that led (get this) away from our houses. IT'S STILL WEDNESDAY. After an exchange of words between this friend and the owner of the bar about a previous run-in with one of the bartenders, we were drinking pints once again (we make friends everywhere we go).

Three sheets is an understatement. A SERIOUS understatement. I can't remember the last time I turned down any drink, let alone a beer (true story). This night I did. I had to. I didn't feel sick or like I was going to fall down, but the beer just wouldn't make it into my gullet. No matter how hard we tried, it just wasn't going down. We thought, "Maybe it's the glass. Maybe the glass is broken and that's why it's not going down." Nope.

We thought, "Maybe it's the beer."

"Hey, we need some new beer over here!"

That wasn't it either. Then I realized what it was. I must have some sort of radar that keeps me from drinking when someone I know (including myself) is about to make a mistake. Yep. In hindsight, that's it. My teammate was talking to some unfortunate looking women with bad attitudes and I had somehow found my way (been dragged into) the conversation. Now, due to a mechanism I didn't even know existed, my body (or God) was not allowing me to drink one more drop for fear that something horrible may happen. What an amazing trick. It's like a safety breaker for anyone that I care about.

After attempting to coax several drinks out of my amigo, one of the Sirens' rides appeared. D-bag to the T. An overweight, white-oxford clad cliche who pulled up, right in front of the bar, in a black, late-90's BMW X5. Sure, it probably drives better than my ride, a 1994 MUNI bus liner, but seriously. I think I need to reiterate: IT'S WEDNESDAY.

Using my powers of persuasion (amplified due to my current state of inebriation) I convinced my walking partner to depart the classy, wood-panel clad public in retreat to our respective homes. With a few side-comments (those of which I wholeheartedly believe still haven't set in) made to each of the three patrons we were leaving, we made our ways home. The wrath of Thursday to come tomorrow.

-n