Nights Out in Tahoe and San Francisco 2016

2020 Note: This is the last of my old San Francisco newsletter stories, people, and I have a feeling it won't disappoint. It's crazy that, back then, I thought the books I was writing were my main thing and that these were just little throwaways. But goddamn: there were fantastic, and reading them again makes me want to capture the spirit again in video format. Anyway, here we go. The last 2016 newsletter begins now. 

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Fucking Around Online.

As most of you know, Memorial Day weekend in Vegas was a real orgy.

Afterwards, it took about three days for the suicidal urges to subside, 1.5 weeks to feel more or less physically healthy, and twice that long before I once again had enough happiness and self-esteem to comfortably navigate day to day life. 

Which means I wasn't, you know, running around SF bars with a Red Bull Vodka playing grab ass the weekend I got home. Yeah. Not too much partying to report this month (other than my night out in Tahoe), but I made up for it with some serious hijinks in cyber space. 
Like, for instance, when Smee passed out with his laptop open one night, and I provided his followers with a PhD-level seminar on venomous serpents, along with opening a nice critical discussion of one of Spielberg's classic films. 
(The dedicated newsletter readers among you may recognize this cobra as an allusion to March's edition, where Smee first weighed-in on the proper handling and treatment of dangerous reptiles)

My downstairs roommate Tim similarly fucked up in the open-Facebook department. 
This guy used to not take a piss without first locking his door. But time has made him careless, and, one sleepy Saturday afternoon while he cuddled on the upstairs couch with his girlfriend, I infiltrated his bedroom and set to work. 

(For those of you unfamiliar with the California hiphop scene, "Thizz" is a verb which means "to take ecstasy," and which gathered some pop-culture momentum in the mid-2000's (or, about as much pop-culture momentum as can be gathered by a verb that means "to take ecstasy.") Even back then, saying the word non-sarcastically made you a retard; to write something like this now, if it were real, would warrant execution by firing squad.)

I went up to my room and had a good chuckle over this, but then, after about 10-minutes went by and the post still hadn't been taken down, an idea popped into my head.

The next five minutes were spent scurrying up and down our staircase, going from his computer to mine. 
Oh yes. A Facebook Hack Conversation. Maybe the first in recorded history. The thizz rant was probably asinine enough for most people to dismiss as a prank, but a conversation in the comments...well, how do you fake that?

Hopefully this inspired some serious head scratching amongst Tim's Facebook friend base, and maybe even one or two contemplations of the "Block" or "Unfriend" button. 
Punking Whole Foods I don't really have too much against Whole Foods. The stores are always full of hot chicks, you can return shit for no reason at all...

 It's expensive, yeah, but there are plenty of grocery store alternatives. No one's making you shop there. 
Here's my big beef, though. There's a Whole Foods literally two blocks from my house, and the burrito/hot food bar there is both healthy and delicious. 

Why does this piss me off, you ask?

'Cause it's a dangerous siren song for someone with my thin and unreliable stream of income. I end up spending way too much money there. And so, a few months ago, I decided to make Whole Foods pay for my lack of self control. 

Enter Free Burrito Day.
 Free Burrito Day (invented by Yours Truly) is a fantastic solution for whenever you feel like a burrito but don't feel like spending $8 on a burrito. It works like this:

1. Stroll into your friendly neighborhood Whole Foods with good posture and a smile on your face.

2. Walk up to the burrito bar and tell whoever's working there to give you the works. Or rather, indicate that on one of the little burrito slips. Double meat, guacamole, artichoke heart–don't hold back. 
3. Accept the burrito and walk right past the registers to the little dining area featured in most store locations. 

4. Eat the burrito and then get up and leave. 

5. Go about your day.

Woah woah woah, Danny, you might be thinking here. What if someone questions me? Or what if they dispatch some thug of a security guard to detain me until the police arrive? 

That's why you need an alibi.

An alibi? 

Yeah. 

Before you eat the burrito (I guess we can call this step 4(a) if we're still going by the list above) before you eat the burrito, put the barcoded sticker that's on the outside of the burrito wrapper into your pocket. Then, if Whole Food's dispatches a thug while you're eating, just say to him this: 

"Yeah man–I'm not done shopping yet, is why I didn't go to the check out line. I just got done working out and was starving and had to get my head straight before getting groceries, you know? Feel my bicep. 30 sets today. Real barn burner. But anyway, look"–reaching into your pocket–"I even saved the barcode. Going to hand it to the little cutie pie on check out stand #3 in approx 25 minutes. Fantastic tits. How's your day, man?"

And you're fucking golden after that. Joke's on the security guard. Guy will feel so bad about the false accusation that you might just be able to swipe a $90 bottle of wine to wash down your next free burrito with–unquestioned and unmolested. 

So yeah. I'd already done this, the burrito thing, probably four times. But when one of my roommates started working at the Whole Foods coffee bar, and then befriended the store's security guard, then invited said security guard to our house to smoke some weed one afternoon, and then I came home...

As you might have guessed, Whole Foods didn't like these Twitter posts I was tagging them in one bit. Don't worry, though. I got 'em real good. 

It appears Whole Foods is too large, too lumbering a corporation to take any real action against me, though. No wanted posters are on display; no managers or thugs are dispatched from back rooms when I enter the store. And so Free Burrito Day continues, my friends. Celebrate it in good health. 

Tahoe Tahoe. Pretty much my only real party night since Vegas. 

Tahoe usually means a weekend long blowout. Twice a year (the 4th and NYE), for the past two years, I've been going up to my parents' cabin in south lake with my squad and raising all sorts of hell in the casinos. 

But this year we had a little problem: my parents decided it was high time for a good ol' family vacation, and thus made it clear that only the two of them, myself, and my sister were welcome. 

I wasn't too upset about this. Last 4th of July, after all, Consonant Tift punched a whole in the wall of the master bedroom. Then, this past New Years, locked out and wasted in near-zero temperatures, I threw a trash can through the sliding glass door in order to regain entry to the house. 

So it made sense that our privileges had been revoked. And you know what? I welcomed a quiet weekend. I figured I'd use it catch up on some reading, get a little sun...

But as I think you can imagine, dear reader, the call of the casinos, of going out and getting wasted like I'd been doing in Tahoe for the past two years...it was too strong to resist. 
Three things in particular helped push me over the edge. 

1. My parents' coffee supply consisted of not one, but two bags of decaf. And that's it. A capital offense if there ever was one. 
2. My parents got some kind of love seat installed in their shower. I don't think I need to elaborate on the uses this thing has probably been put to, nor the effect these presumed uses had on my fragile psyche. 

3.  My parents have recently been spending large amounts of time on my website, and have twice attempted to sign up for this very Newsletter (both attempts were parried by Yours Truly).

The discomfort caused by these three things drove me to seek refuge in the admittedly well stock fridge, the very first afternoon. 
From there, I just sat around on the couch, putting a couple back with the cat. 
Good and buzzed, I then petitioned my sister about going out with me. She claimed jet lag and fatigue and said something about going to bed early, but I put an end to that BS very quickly. 

And there we were. The Monte Blue HQ bar. 

I began ordering Coronas by the fistful. My sister, who does not fuck around in the drinking/partying department, drank 3 double Jack & Cokes without standing up
Good and wasted, we then made our way to the Harrah's, where the man you see in the picture below, who functioned as some kind of DJ/keyboardist/singer/dancer, spotted my sister, and then began Making Moves on her. 
Here's a pic of him going after it. 

What was I doing, you ask? Well, I decided to focus my attention on the girl wearing the flowery-looking thing in the picture below. 


This girl had a pretty juicy ass and kept following me around and letting me feel her up and was just pretty clearly down, but what was I going to do? Take her back to my parents' place? Nah. And I didn't really have the energy to go back to her place and interact with whoever I'd have to interact with there. Plus, God only knew how many miles away from the casino it would be.
Solution: I tried to take her outside and hook up with her in some bushes. 

"Where are you taking me?" she finally asked as I lead her across a lawn.

"I'm looking for an adequate shrub."

"But why? For what?"

I turned around, gave her what I thought was a sexy look. 

"I have to go find my friend," she said, and fled. 

Making my way back through the casino, I'd considered replacing her with this girl, who'd just been wheeled out of a nightclub for over-intoxication. But no. It wasn't worth a scene with her security guard escort. 
It was all good, though. The Dj/Keyboardist/Singer/Dancer, perhaps trying to gain favor in his campaign for my sister, pointed me in at another target. 
And here she is. 

And here's a video of me breaking it the fuck down with this new girl, with the Dj/Keyboardist/Singer/Dancer clearly loving every second of it. 
I managed to snag this pic while I was down there. 
And here...oh yes. Here I am going in for the kill. 
This girl had some hot friends, too. But eventually they all fled as well, and I was left once again partying with the good old Dj/K/D/S. Still having the time of my life, though, by the looks of it. 

I think it was around this time that my sister cabbed back to our cabin, afraid that the DJ/K/D/S was going to be off soon, and that he'd begin making Serious Moves on her once he was. Not quite ready to give up yet, I ventured down to the Cabo Wabo bar, to see what I could see. I saw this band. I saw this girl, who was pretty cute and who I Made Moves on, but who wasn't down. 
Then I was accosted by this drunk ass Irish dude, who, slurring, tried to protest my use of flash photography. 

"You're fookin' creeping everyone out with ya little flashy flashy."

"Yeah dude, you get all the pussy."

"You scarin' off all the girls."

"Yeah, dude. I know. I already told you: you get all the pussy, so there's none left for anyone else."

This guy had no idea how to deal with my attitude here. He kind of stewed on it for a second, and then just walked away. I wanted to keep him around, though–keep fucking with him and maybe entice him to take a swing at me. 

"Let me buy you a beer, man," I said. 

"Fook you. I can buy a million beers myself. I'm rich."

"Really? A million? Dude. I bought this one for almost $8. So you're going to be sitting on, what, about $8 million worth of single Coronas? That's a poor investment, man. I work in a bar, and let me tell you–the mark up on drinks is insane. I foresee extreme difficulty in you making any sort of profit on that inventory."

"Fook you!"

The guy walked off again, and I had myself a chuckle, but afterwards I felt I'd seen enough of Cabo Wabo.

Wandering down an empty hallway, not sure what I should do with myself next, I spotted this. 

"Hey...looks kinda familiar..."
"Wait a second...is that..."
I clutched at my heart, staggered backward. 

"Holy shit! Tahoe's favorite. This whole time! And none of us had any idea..."I charged up the stairs, across the Harrah's casino. 

And, until 4 am, with a new appreciation for the formerly anonymous Dj/keyboardist/dancer/singer, this is what my night looked like. 

-Things That Pissed Me Off this Month-

(1) The Rise of Kygo

Yes. Kygo. One of the newest European button-pushers passing himself off as an artist. 

I actually have no problem with DJ Kygo personally. He's out there doing his thing, making money, getting famous, getting laid...

My problem recently has actually been his fans:

As far as I can tell, the genre of people in the pictures above are the only ones who actually consume Kygo's music. And, most unfortunately, they've all recently decided that he and I look alike. 
Yes. I see the resemblance. But this doesn't mean I enjoy having "KYGO!!!" shouted at me every time I set foot in a bar in San Francisco. Doesn't mean I enjoy, every time I contemplate wearing a backwards hat, having to decide whether or not it's worth dealing with the flock of douchebags who will come up and ask me about where I'm spinning later that night. (And yes: they always look like some mixture of the young professionals in the above pictures.)

I wouldn't mind so much if it was getting me laid, but it's usually just mean-spirited. Like, the subtext is always kind of "Look at this guy, he looks like someone else. What a faggot!"
 

Here's the real head-scratcher in the whole Kygo Kraze, though. He's not even good. His debut album, Cloud Nine, received the following reviews from professional music critics:

Which, wanna know what other artists have recently put out albums with Metacritic scores in the 50's?

Nickelback

Sum 41

Limp Bizkit

These were bands we listened to as children, people. When we didn't know any better. 

But these Kygo fans...they're fucking adults. With good jobs. Who went to good schools. Does emotional intelligence and the ability to think for yourself decline in proportion to one's ascent of the corporate ladder?

What goes on in this Kygo fan's head? How complex is his worldview? How does he answer for himself the trickier questions of theology and existence when he's alone in his bed and it's dark and everyone's asleep? Or is it all just J. Crew and Kygo and Sunday morning mimosa brunches for him?

And again, my issue is not with Kygo. There's no shame in selling out, as long as you're self-aware about it. You think I wouldn't write the screenplay for a film like Clifford's Really Big Movie 2? Or endorse a product like Viagra or McDonalds if asked? Fuck yes I would. At work recently, the question was going around: Would you suck another man's dick for $15 million?

I was the very first person to answer in the affirmative. And the first to tell everyone who said No or who was on the fence that they were a fucking jackass. 

And my beef isn't with electronic music fans or young professionals in general. Though I personally think EDM is bullshit, some of my best friends insist that there are varying levels of quality within the genre, and I think objectively they're probably right. And as far as far as working in an office or whatever, that's fine too. 

My beef is with a very small cross section: young professionals who live in San Francisco, who list Kygo among their top-5 favorite artists, and who see no foul in yelling his name at innocent people in public establishments. 

Or maybe I should just cut my hair and stop wearing my hat backwards. 

(2) 365 Organic Un-blended Peanut Butter

Listen–I eat a lot of fucking peanut butter. I'm a connoisseur. I've looked into ordering it from Amazon in bulk. I know what I'm talking about.

But can we all agree that this is bullshit?
 

When I get home and I'm tired and I just want to slather some ground-up nut sauce on an apple and call it dinner, I do not want to sift through the equivalent of a Biblical fucking flood.  Look at this shit. It's all over my fucking hand. And then plus I had to go scrambling for paper towels afterwards to wipe down the container. 

But the good news is I won't be able to buy any more of this particular brand for quite some time. 

Why?

Because it appears Whole Foods, where the offending butter was purchased, has finally brought the hammer down on me.
Here I am, just minding my own business, enjoying one of my hard-earned free burritos, when this rascal, this simian, took to harassing me on Twitter:

I was outraged, but nonetheless I've decided to heed this Twitter warning. Especially since my roommate–an inside man at this Whole Foods, my spy–was able to confirm that this Duncan Brunst character (what kind of a fucking name is that? honestly)–that this Duncan Brunst jerk off does in fact work in the store. 

***Last Minute Update***

The following intelligence was, hours before sending this out, provided by my spy:
 

Oh yes, dear reader. My spy was able to provide the pictures too. 
 

So yes: it appears I must for a while keep my distance from the Ocean Avenue Whole Foods. But do not fear, loyal reader: my retribution will be both terrible and swift. Maybe swift enough to make next month's Newsletter...

In the mean time, you all have Duncan "The Mongoloid" Brunst's Twitter handle. Feel free to send him grotesque things off Google Images and/or threats against his life. 

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The last thing that pissed me off this month was....

-My passed out roommate wasn't as wasted as I thought he was-

So I came home late from work the other night, and what did I find?

Smee. Asleep on the recliner. 

Which in itself wasn't an unusual scene. He does this, after all, about three nights a week. But significant this time was the small forrest of Coor's cans you see on the left. 

That's right. The sonofabitchh had been drinking again. And the apparent amount he'd been drinking suggested to me that he'd be comatose for at least another four hours. 

Not one to let a golden opportunity like this pass, I went down to his room to gather equipment. 

Smee, as the long-time subscribers among you might know, is a real sex fiend, and it only took about a minute of searching to find this:

And this:
 

Then I found these, at which point I decided I might as well try to tie him up or something. 
 

The bandana would be good too, to use as a like a silly hat. 

But this was as far as I got in my Smee-decorating before the fucker woke up:
 

Bastard. 

He was disoriented to be sure, and perhaps confused about how it was that a dildo had found its way to his neck–but not nearly as drunk as I'd first believed.

Oh yeah. Before he woke up, I did manage to get on his computer and hit him with this:

-Highlights from a Night Out-

As mentioned last month, this July, my good buddy Dustin Akbari had maybe the biggest Jiu-Jitsu match of his life. Right here in SF.

And why not use the occasion to get everyone in town for a good ol' fashion bender? You know that fiend College Boy was on board.
 

He and Dustin drove from Sacramento, and they showed up at our house about four hours before the match on Saturday afternoon. 

Hmmm. What to do until show time...
 

Drink. 

And skate. 
 

Oh yeah. Those are some nice shots
 

And here we have Consonant Tift – hopelessly my inferior as a skater – standing around complaining. 

This is me pretending to smoke cigarettes. 

And this is me drunk and pissing all over College Boy's legs. 
 

At some point a puppy showed up. 

But then it was time to pack our flasks with gin and head to the event. 
 

We were pretty drunk upon arrival, and kept drinking once inside. But I was sober enough to watch my coach here in SF, Romulo Melo, go ahead and fuck his guy up. 

And sober enough to watch Dustin, for the first five-ish minutes, positively throw Garry Tonon around.

(Side note: what legitimate reason could Garry's parents possibly have had for throwing an extra "r" in his name?)

Later in the match though, Garry Tonon, the sneaky fuck, was able to hit one of his signature submissions.

Dustin succumbed to the heel hook, ending the night as far as Jiu-Jitsu was concerned. 

But certainly not ending the night in general
 

Yes. After spending a solid half-hour in Consonant Tift's girlfriend's shower, shaving his chest, Akbari was ready to hit the town. 

And...fuck. My phone died right after that last bar picture, so we're going to have to fast-foward a bit.  

There we go. 4 am. Back at my place. Where there was a phone charger, and also a newly acquired random human being.

I didn't know who this girl was or what the deal was or whatever, so I hid all my valuables before passing out. Just to make sure there wasn't theft.

As far as looks, she was Ok, but hey–you can't judge me here either way. I make it explicit in my site's intro: mediocre ass is my specialty. 

Speaking of mediocre ass...
 

I went and saw Modest Mouse and Brand New at UC Berkeley the other day, and, right before Brand New went on, I overheard some girl behind me talking about making out or wanting to make out or something. Pretty buzzed at this point, I just turned around and gave her the old "Come to papa," and then went to fucking work. 

This guy fucking loves it
 

And the nifty thing about this was, for about 60% of the show, the girl stood in front of me with her arm wrapped around her back: hand down my pants, jerking me off.
 

I've seen Brand New live maybe seven times now, but never while receiving a steady handjob. Against those other times, I'd rank this show somewhere in the top quartile.