Spent last week perusing the watering holes of San Francisco, and I learned a few things about being hip without trying and what it truly feels like to stumble uphill.
First observation: Just because there’s empty space on your wall does not mean you need to fill it with a TV. Less is more, unless you’re a sports bar.
Second: Cash is king. Most places we hunkered down in knew nothing of my given American Indian name — Running Tab. ATMs, however, were as abundant as buffalo in 1491.
Finally: If you’re having fun, it doesn’t matter in what order your limbs are moving on the dance floor, as long as you’ve got on some Chucks and skinny jeans. The brooding hipster days are over — it’s time for smiles and PBR for all.
Tequila shots will never be the same after Mag Bar bartender Vic veers you on the highway to hell. On a cold, dreary Saturday afternoon, Vic, bored of filling the jukebox and puffing on smokes, looked over in our general direction and said, “You wanna do shots?” We were on our second round of Bloody Marys and were eager to keep the coals in our bellies stoked. A bit too early for bourbon and a little too late for scotch, tequila was unanimously picked as our poison. Well tequila no less.
As we scrambled for salt and hesitantly asked for limes, Vic waved his head back and forth in mere disappointment. “Try this,” he said as he slid a bottle of Frank’s RedHot in our direction. We drizzled the outside of our hands with a few squirts, licked and then slammed. My disposition has never been the same. Try it. Tell your friends: “Vic made me do it.”
I’m S.A.D. the sun isn’t shining, too. And I’m S.A.D. I don’t have any money in my wallet to scurry to the beaches of Florida. So commiserate with me on my blog at barbelle.leoweekly.com