Life

FUCKING AROUND SAN FRANCISCO

This video perfectly sums up life in San Francisco (ignoring that it didn't have 660 calorie cans of Four Loko in it).

From the vimeo page:

The second edit with the Kodak play sport now with wide & macro lenses. I'm trying to share what I see from day to day in San Francisco, CA. and surrounding bay area. Nothing serious. I hope you enjoy. weouthere.

(hat tip Macaframa)

Cool Kid Travels: Eau de Crooklyn?

Last week I was in Brooklyn and stumbled across Bond No. 9's latest scent “Brooklyn.'” The Brooklyn perfume consists of a combination of grapefruit, cardamom, cypress-wood, geranium leaves, juniper berrie, cesarwood, leather and guaiacwood, (wtf is that?)  and for a mere $220 you can actually “smell like” Brooklyn. Don't really know where they came up with this weird ass combo to encapsulate the scent of the “edgy metropolis.” To me Crooklyn smells like wasted youth and decaying bodies but, I guess that really isn't marketable.

If San Francisco's neighborhoods were bottled up into different perfumes, what would these neighborhoods smell like? And what is the price you'd have to pay to smell like them?

Mission: Taco trucks, piss, cheap beer, expensive coffee, trustafarians. Price: One call to your parents to please, please, please let you use daddy's Amex one more time.

Haight: Drum circles, midwestern runaways that didn't get the memo that punk is dead (see: dirt, b.o., and dreadlocks), bong loads, DMT. Price: Panhandle for 48 hrs straight and pray some unwitting tourists feel bad for your 3 dogs.

Marina: The scent of entitlement, hair product, fake tanner, axe body spray, shame, chest bumps! Price: The cost of running for mayor.

Tenderloin: Crack, garbage, meth, cheap blow jobs (see: rotting teeth), poor life decisions. Price: Eagerness to give cheap blow jobs.

Noe Valley: Upwardly mobile snobbery, babies, french bulldogs (read: shit), the new car smell. Price:  Raising 2 kids, paying for private school, a vasectomy

Sunset: Isolation, depression, pseudo suburbia. Price: Moving anywhere else in the city

Castro: Rainbows, unicorns, leather daddy's leather, lube. Price: An evening at Boy Bar.

Chinatown: fish, lost tourists, the dirty 30, dumpsters. Price: Shitting yourself.

North Beach: Pizza! bros, day old strippers. Price: One lap dance.

If you have anymore ideas go ahead and throw them into the comments, and if you want to add anymore neighbs that I didn't cover, i.e. Pac Heights (I'm not sure what rich smells like) go ahead and do it.

Getting Booted: My Charitable Donation for the Year

After getting booted in the Mission this weekend, I 'donated' nearly a $$$GRAND$$$ to the City of San Francisco this morning.  You're fucking welcome.  

On a related note, I'll be joining the ranks of the car-less masses.  Can't wait to wake up an hour earlier to commute to the East Bay every morning.  Anyone want to buy 1989 Accord coupe?  Ugly as shit but it runs.  Holler.

The Cerveza Preparadas at Chavitas #2 Are Fucking Legit

When you start drinking at 7am to enjoy the magic of the World Cup, might I recommend the cerveza preparadas (tomato juice, Corona, half a lime, salt and some Tapatio) at Chavitas #2.  Honestly, I didn't really know what was being ordered at the time, but pointing at fishbowls of red liquid at a neighboring table and saying “cuatro por favor” generally leads to a good time.

Pop's First Annual Slam Dunk Contest: A Photo Journal

This past Saturday, amidst sunny skies and blistering winds, Pop's Bar on 24th and York St. held its first annual Slam Dunk Contest, and it was awesome. The contestants gathered at the local dive around 4 p.m. or so to properly lubricate themselves before taking part in bar game history. There were costumes, there was a shirtless man, there was a girl, there was an ecstatic crowd, there were embarrassing falls and flops, and there were plenty of authoritative slam-fucking-dunks. Below is a set of choice photos from the proceedings.

Michaelangelo had some issues.

Why is that guy dressed like a pizza?!

There's that girl I was talking about.

Sometimes less clothing means more air.

Friends were helping friends.

One-Eyed Ron fucking owned the game.

Free Pete looking like a basketball card.

Does this kid got style or what?!

Nicknamed “GQ” by the crowd, this dunker rose above his name to deliver some serious dunks.

Seriously! Why is that guy wearing a pizza costume?!

Damn! Pizza got hops.

Get it in there, Ron!

GQ from the free-throw line!

Pizza wins 1st, GQ wins 2nd, and One-Eyed Ron gets 3rd!

Exciting Things Happen to Me

So I’m walking the two miles home down Mission Street—because Muni fucking sucks more than anyone outside of this city can possibly fucking understand—when I get to the always beautiful southeast corner of 16th & Mission.  There is a shitstorm of crazy going around me, even more than usual, and a short man and a woman post up right next to me as I wait for the light to change so I can cross. They start yelling at each other, the man pushes the woman and she pushes back and the next thing I know some big crazy dude comes from across the street and gets up in it. The short guy pulls out a knife and starts flailing around with it trying to slash these two, right fucking next to me, and he starts backing away wildly and almost into me.

I start running away from the guy and  see a cop car across the street in front of Walgreens sitting with its doors open. I run up to the car as the short guy is continuing to try to stab these people back at the corner. I tell the passenger-side cop what’s happening, and he gets out, gun blazing brandished, and his partner pulls out a shotgun and starts heading up at them too. They run up to the scene and the short, knife-wielding guy runs off, but doesn’t get far, as pictured above.

To top it off, some old drunk guy (epic mustache man?) starts calling me a gringo and a joto (alright, point taken), but then he starts trying to shove me as I’m trying to take a photo of the guy getting arrested. The shitstorm of crazy was still swirling all around me, so I decided it might be time to go, especially since I was also carrying two big old bags filled with school books and my laptop. The lesson I take away from this is: fuck Muni.

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