On Clarion Alley.

What has become of our society?  Men with autoerotic addictions are cast to the gutter, forced to collect discarded hipster Viagra bottles to fuel their addictions.  We have a five-star cat hotel that sits next to homeless encampments.  The unemployment rate continues to rise while politicians grappling economic issues are banned from funerals.  The American income gap widens as more trendy restaurants open their doors on streets lined with people eating out of trash cans.  The city cuts park services while it gives tax breaks to billion dollar startups.  Politicians and greedy CEOs are literally choking the poor.

Anyway, gotta go, Mr. Willikers is ringing his bell again. Foot rub time.

The Examiner brings us news that the anticipated Mission Bowling Club on 17th needs the Board of Supervisors to amend a 15-year-old liquor license moratorium in order to move forward:

Bowling and boozing — two inherently related activities — are the subject of city legislation designed to clear the way for a proposed new six-lane alley and bar-restaurant in the Mission district.

Supervisors Jane Kim and Scott Wiener want to tweak the planning code to make way for the new locally owned business, which wouldn’t otherwise be allowed because past problems with the area’s drinking culture prompted restrictions on new liquor licenses.

The liquor license restrictions mentioned were made way back in 1996 to help combat gang violence, preventing new bars, grocery stores and corner stores from selling booze.  Undoubtedly the reasons for the moratorium are not as pressing today as they were, so why not just strike down the restrictions altogether so the Mission can get more bowling alleys and breweries instead of boring condos?

I would also like to give a quick shoutout for Supervisor Wiener for once again filling in for The Mission's absentee Supervisor David Campos.

[Artist's Rendering by Andrew Dalton of SFist]

Let's examine this tragedy a little closer:

Saturday morning was a glorious slice of the weekend, full of sunshine, eggs over easy, and far too many Pacificos with some of my closest hungover friends.  After a few minutes of pestering a friend following our early morning alcohol consumption, said friend agreed to take us the length of 24th to Dolores Park in the back of a beat up mid-90s pickup truck.  So armed with some “tomato juices” in to-go cups an area bar fixed for us, we were in the back of the truck and on our way.

While making our way down Valencia, we figured it would be kind and neighborly to dish out drinks to passing cyclists.  The handoff was perfect: a moderate approach to the back of the truck, an extended arm, a firm grab of the bottom of the cup, and the drink is onto the next one.

As the truck barreled down 19th towards the decadence of Dolores Park, the rider took a hearty swig from the juice, proving hangover elixirs and two wheels mix just fine.

But what happened next confounds even the most seasoned cyclists.  Perhaps too many hipster cliches at once threw off his balance because as the thirsty rider attempted to return his right hand to the handlebar, the bike leaned left, foreshadowing a sick biff with the tormented concrete below.

In a desperate attempt to save the beverage from the impending wreckage, the cyclist lunged the drink back towards the truck.  A Herculean effort, no doubt, but Starbucks cups are not known to survive the crushing force of failure.

And splash.

Wayfarer privileges revoked.