Scowl, Nu?

Another update to the San Francisco 1999 Fashion Faux-Pas List:

So I get on the bus at 7:15 AM to go to work, and I all of a sudden smell the smell of cat pee. Where is that coming from? I think. It’s not me is it? The cat didn’t pee in my bag, did she? If it was me, I would’ve smelled it when I left the house. Where is that smell coming from? I keep standing and riding (because the bus is packed, of course) and standing, and riding, until someone gets out at their stop and a seat opens up. I sit down.

Now I know where the smell is coming from. Great.

Every morning I make my daily pilgrimage to Starbucks. I don't go to an cute, little, independent coffee shop because they've all been gobbled up by the "A Starbucks on every corner" concept. There are none. (That I've ever seen, anyway. And most of the little coffee/pastry places downtown usually tout the fact that they "proudly sell Starbucks coffee.") So, every morning I make my daily pilgrimage to Starbucks, and it sucks. Not because the coffee is bad, because it's actually not that bad, and not because you have to deal with the "everyone trying to squeeze through the one open door without touching the other unopened door" thing, and not because you also have to deal with the people who walk two abreast through that one open door, and you know that girl saw you and was only pretending to be spellbound by her companion's conversation while looking straight ahead as she literally ran you over…not because of all that, but because the Starbucks I happen to pass on my way to work is the world's slowest Starbucks in existence.

There's always a line out the door, and it's like the money-taking, coffee-pouring, order-chanting barristas are all thumbs. I have my $1.35 ready and waiting as soon as I get through the door, but it takes these people five minutes to pour a simple cup of coffee and press 3 buttons on a cash register. They always have to fiddle with the timer, or the frilly little coffee filters, and sometimes they have to take great pains to tip the coffee urn so that you get just the right amount of grounds in the bottom of your cup. How satisfying it is to finish a perfectly nice cup of coffee with a great big mouthful of grounds as you take your last sip! Once you get past the obstacle of paying (and stifling the urge to yell "Just take the money! Just take it and push the buttons later!"), you need to patiently wait behind the people at the milk-and-sugar counter who feel that just because all of the different sugars and sweeteners and cocoa dust and cinnamon toppings are there, they need to put each and every one of them into their hot beverage. I once saw a man pour close to a third of the sugar in a sugar container (y'know, the glass ones?) into his coffee cup, then stir it, then put in a packet of Sweet 'n Low, stir again, then some powdered cinnamon, and then I had to leave because not only was I growing old waiting, I was getting grossed out. I mean, I've heard of extra sweet, but why bother with the coffee at that point? 

While Janet and I were attending West Virginia University, I started my fashion faux-pas list. This list chronicled every bad outfit and fashion statement that I saw during my year-and-a-half in Morgantown. By the time we left for Boston, the list ran over 100 entries long.

Not surprisingly, when we moved to Boston, it wasn't that much better. Luckily, six months of deep-freeze winter made for a half-year long fashion hiatus. Sure, people were probably wearing something tacky under their parkas, snow-pants, scarves and gloves, but it provided a needed respite from adding entry-after-entry to the list.

I figured that when we moved to California that the fashion sense would be better. It isn't. To punctuate this lack of fashion savvy, as Carlos and I were sitting at an outside table while drinking our Double Cappuccinos at Torrefazione Italia, I made my first official entry to what will surely become the San Francisco 1999 Fashion Faux-Pas List:

We saw Rent for the 10th time on Saturday night. Now, I know I harp on theater annoyances quite a bit, but I can't help it; there's just so much to harp on. Since we were a little early, we had to kill some time in the lobby while waiting for the ushers to open the doors to the actual theater. While we were waiting, I happened to notice that the cocktail bar in the lobby also sold candy…lots of candy. And not just regular-sized packages of candy, king-sized packages of candy. Now, I'm not going to deny anyone their one pre-theater cocktail, but since when are Twizzlers served with champagne? Are Kit-Kats on their way to replacing the olive as a post-martini snack food? Are people really going to consume a bagful of 75 mints during a less-than-three-hour performance? I'm not even going to start with what I think of the people who actually brought their foot-long boxes of Ju-Ju-Bees into the performance with them, as if they were at the movies or something. You couldn't swing a dead cat during intermission without hitting some snack-fiend standing dumbly in the aisle, gripping a giant, half-eaten Nestle Crunch bar, the foil all wrapped around the top because a person simply can't eat that much chocolate in 15 minutes.

You would think that with all of this sugar being consumed that the audience would actually be, oh, I don't know, awake for the show. I've heard from other people who go to Rent a lot that San Francisco audiences are generally very under-enthusiastic, which I didn't quite believe since the audience on opening night was pretty lively, as was the one when we won the lotto and sat in the front (though maybe that was just because we were sitting in the front.) But Saturday night was dead! Rent is a loud, rock music-style musical, so clapping, cheering and general enthusiasm are expected, not to mention that it also helps the actors' energy if the audience is receptive. The place was one big flatline. When no one in the entire balcony gave them a standing ovation, I was in shock. Huh? Avery and I stood up alone. I know I've said that I hate when people talk, slurp, and chew their way through a show, but on the other hand, it's OK to show that you actually have a pulse. Crazy San Franciscans.

Well there… I’ve got a lot to tell y’all about, but I just don’t have the energy to get into extreme detail here… so consider this the quick-and-dirty version of the last week at the Toronado.

Wednesday – Talk about a really freaky afternoon. I left the office at the usual time… and lo and behold, Jocelyn’s friend Shadee (check older barfly chronicles for more about her) got on the bus. Two stops down, Jocelyn’s brother Paul got on the bus. Ok… Shadee, Paul and me… all on the same bus (which I have never seen either of them on before). That’s a little bizarre.

The last time I saw Paul was at the Toronado, so when Shadee got off the bus at Van Ness Ave, we decided to head back to the Toronado for a beer. But first… we had to make a stop at the comic book shop. Five minutes later, we were at Comix Experience, and a few minutes after that, we were at the bar.

For the next few hours, Paul, Janet (she met us at the bar) and I drank a few rounds of beer before we went our separate ways.

Thursday – Carlos and I went to Speakeasy Brewery for four hours of drinking and cigar smoking. God, I love it there. Forest provided us with the prospectus and disclosure for the preferred stock offering which was just approved by the State of California. We agree to read the document and plan to meet at the Toronado on Friday to discuss the matter more thoroughly.

Friday – Since Carlos and I were planning on going to the Toronado to meet with Forest, we decided to invite Molly from the office and just have a end-of-week venting at the bar. Beer, beer, beer, beer, Janet arrives, beer, beer, beer, my ex-soccer captain (and Molly’s friend) Paul shows up, beer, beer beer, Forest and his wife Julia show up, beer, beer, beer, Janet, Carlos and I become co-owners of Speakeasy Brewery, beer, beer, beer.

Seriously. Carlos, Janet and I decided to make the plunge and each bought some shares of Speakeasy. Sure, we’re relatively minor investors (owning a little less than 1/10 of a percent each), but it’s the principle. Plus, now that we buy a Speakeasy beer, we’re putting money in our pockets.

Saturday – Post RENT trip to the Toronado (11pm to 1:30am). Drank some beers, talked to Steve Miner (who took some pictures of us a few months ago at the bar), watched some guy get kicked out of the bar for pissing off Johnny, drank a Hennepin (a Saison style American beer) and a Saison Dupont (a Belgian Saison – or spring- beer). Went home. Slept.

That’s all I can muster up for an entry. Remember: Drink Speakeasy Beer!