I’m in San Francisco as I type this from my hotel room overlooking another hotel room.

I wisely took the courtesy shuttle from the airport to the hotel. It even said “Pan Pacific Courtesy Shuttle” in blue letters on the side. When I got out I pulled a $5 bill from my g-string to tip the driver, and he pointed to the sign in the window of the van. $15 to ride from the airport to the hotel. Pretty good deal when compared to a taxi, but let’s not call it a courtesy shuttle. Lying is not courteous.

I wasn’t mad about that, just confused. I did start to feel some anger when I went to check in and was met with all manner of archaic payment requirements. Several otter pelts and a basket of colorful beads later they gave me a key to my room. Because I was so patient, they said, they gave me a room on the executive level. Paging Doctor Fancypants…Doctor Privilege McFancypants? Please claim your embroidered bathrobe and $6 bottle of Budweiser in your hotel room, stat.

Yesterday I decided to walk around the city and see if I couldn’t get mugged. Luckily I arrived at the intersection of Stockton and Market Street just in time to witness the weirdo parade. There were several flatbed trucks that had been converted to mobile dance clubs, complete with DJ’s and chicks (?) grinding on poles.

I decided I want my next car to be a flatbed dance club.

Because then when people said, “Dusty brings a party with him wherever he goes” they wouldn’t be filthy liars.

As far as San Francisco being a massive homosexual hotbed, I wouldn’t say there was a much higher gay population than in Atlanta, but they are way gayer. Most of the gay dudes I know in Atlanta appear and act pretty much like everyone else- they just happen to enjoy having a penis thrust into their large intestine every now and then. Some of the guys I have seen here don’t even walk- they dance everywhere they go. They flail their arms when they talk, wear comically large sunglasses, and appear to be the happiest people on earth. No wonder they call it gay.

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This morning I woke up disoriented. Not as disoriented as I was last week when I got halfway to work before realizing it was Saturday, but still pretty disoriented. I remember getting out of bed thinking “Who the hell carpeted my bedroom while I was asleep?”

The coffee they put in the room has a unique smell. Something that nothing else smells like. Think of the smell of silly string. Now name something else that smells like silly string. You can’t because it is a truly unique smell. Much like the smell of the coffee in room 506 on September 25, 2005.

So I drank two cups of the stuff and started writing an article for Atlanta Illustrated. Then I started feeling lightheaded and sick. I thought I was going to pass out and maybe die.

I had weighed myself the night before and came in at 185 pounds in my underwear. Now that I was lightheaded, I decided to forego the logical option of lying down and trying not to lose consciousness in favor of a science experiment. I shed my jeans and staggered to the bathroom where I weighed in at 183.

My head was actually two pounds lighter.

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Breakfast was had at Mel’s drive in. I think they should rename it “Mel’s house of velocity and abject fear”. Everybody was running and shouting orders and eating and being loud and generally not adding to my relaxing breakfastorial experience. It was sort of contagious, too. When the sweaty waiter came huffing up and barely paused to say “WHACANNIGETCHA?” I was all “DENVEROMELETNOONIONSNOCILANTRO! GO!” I was preparing to eat like a game show contestant, fling my fork to the counter, throw my hands in the air and yell “DONE” before being hosed off and thrown out the door.

So then this girl walks in and sits at the bar next to me. She had hairy legs, smelled like patchouli and body odor, was wearing one of those hippie dresses made of hemp, and was carrying a book called “Women Who Run with the Wolves”. She also had a tattoo of the female symbol on her arm, just in case there was any doubt.

Awesome, but probably not a person who would like me. I thought about opening with my theory about how when dealing with broads, yes means maybe, maybe means yes, and no means “after I fall asleep” (just to break the ice), but I’m only that stupid on paper.

She sat down and flipped to the chapter called “The Wild body- Pleasures of the Flesh” (shudder) and began to read and idly glance at the menu every once in a while. She clearly didn’t realize that eating at this place was a competition sport, even though I was practicing my quick fork release technique and doing warm up squat-thrusts a mere ten inches from her.

The waiter scurries up to her carrying about 47 plastic cups and says “HAVEYOUDECIDEDWHATYOUWANT?” in a way that made me think that someone was bleeding to death in the kitchen and he took time out from tying off a tourniquet to come take an order.

Cloudflower (I name people when I am silently judging them, and she looked like a Cloudflower) looked up, looked back down, pondered thoughtfully, and said the following-
“Ahh…yeah…I’ll, ah, take the…no, wait…the toast- is it…?”
One of my biggest peeves is people who start talking before they have decided what to say. It makes me want to shake them and scream in their face. She continues…
“The ahh, Vegetarian omelet…but (sigh)…can I get spinach with…do you sautee in organic soy whatever? Oh…no. I think I’ll…”

So the guy says “Take your time, I’ll be right back.” and hustles to the kitchen to finish saving lives.

This was obviously the single greatest injustice ever perpetrated on a human being, and I had a feeling that this chick’s default state was offended and outraged anyway, so I braced myself, knowing that I was the nearest target.

“HUH! How condescending and arrogant. Can you believe that?” She even had the hippie intellectual accent- she said “ahhroghant” and over-enunciated everything.
“What do you mean?”
“Did you see that? What an ass.”
“What?”
“He walked away from me. I was ORDERING.” *hands palms up on either side of the menu, fingers exasperatedly splayed to further illustrate the gravity of her complaint*
“No…no, you really weren’t ordering. I think he thought you hadn’t decided yet and wanted to give you more time.”
“Well, he could have been a little more patient.”
“Come on. He was trying to take your order while making scrambled eggs with his free hand and pouring coffee with his left foot. It’s like a war zone in here.”
“Well, I’m going to advise the manager of this situation.”
(Now it has escalated to a situation, mind you)

She went back to reading, but did so with her eyebrows all raised like she was feeling pretty righteous in her sassiness.

Then the seat next to me opened up, so I took the opportunity to put some fresh air between myself and Cloudflower. She noticed and looked a little offended, so I did my patented brand of trying to fix the situation and accidentally making it worse. I used a stock phrase of mine-

“Oh, you don’t stink or anything, I just flail when I eat and I like to have room. Heh.”

When in actuality she did smell like deep fried buffalo taint and was probably aware of it.
Well, taking a frigging bath is cheap, quick, and a part of civilized life, so I don’t care if I made her mad.

Soon the waiter sprinted up and asked if she had decided. To her credit, she didn’t give him much attitude. She just didn’t seem to understand where she was.

“Do you have soy milk?”

The waiter looked around to make sure he was at the right restaurant, and then said “uhh…no? Can I get you anything else?”

“Yes, the vegetarian omelet with spinach… and umm…well…yes…how finely is the cilantro chopped?”

She may as well have asked him to write the lyrics to LaBamba in cuneiform. He looked at her with a combination of inquisition and pity before saying, “about…I don’t know, pretty small, I guess.”

Then I stopped listening because my breakfast showed up and it was showtime. I really wanted to stick around for her complaint to the manager. I’m sure he took immediate action to remedy the arrogant waiter’s condescension.

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I just heard on the news that human rights groups in California are outraged about something. I know- I’m just as shocked as you are. They should follow that headline with this one- “Trees Show Opposition To Being Chopped Down By Being Tall And Made Of Wood- story at eleven.”

Looks like it’s time to get to work on my next entry.

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