Chicago III: The "Bitch, this is not The Vegas" tour.

Dear bloggy,

Once again, Chicago is crazy fun. Boozin', Whorin' and Brawlin' is taken to a whole new level on this trip! It's almost like I went to The Vegas!

WEDNESDAY
When I get into the city on Wednesday, I tell Will, the hot, dread-locked concierge at the Hard Rock Hotel (230 N, Michigan Avenue) that I'm in town for my birthday. Will hooks me up with a corner room that is as big as my Manhattan digs and has a great view of the river. When I get to the room I find that the placard with the room number has been prised off, perhaps by some other partier looking for a souvenir. This is eerie, yet promising. Anonymous good times. Let 'em roll.

My first order of business in town is having my hair done by Magid, co-owner of Days Hair Salon (343 South Dearborn), an Aveda salon run by Assyrian (I think) men who do black women's hair, really, really well. The clients leaving the salon all look stunning, and really, there is no higher recommendation than that. My hair-styling is started by one of the junior stylists. I've actually come in early, but there isn't really an open slot, so I end up doing a lot of waiting while Magid works his magic on other clients. When Magid finally gets to me, though, I find he's well worth the wait. He doesn't miss a detail; every strand is expertly and lovingly styled and laid in place. When he's done, my hair is almost china-doll sleek. I compliment his talents and tip him well. He gives me his card with his cell number on the back and tells me to call him for an appointment whenever I am in town. Score.

Feeling like a rock star, I head over to meet Shasta and her girl Unique over at P.F. Chang's. These beautiful ladies have a drink ready for me. Loves that! We eat, drink and bullshit for hours; the waiters and busboys clean up around us and we eventually find we're the only ones left upstairs. Oops.

We go our separate ways and I return to the hotel to relax and prepare for my job-hunting mission on the following day. And by "relax and prepare," I mean "eat $4 Snickers bars and drink Heinekens while trying to figure out the remote."

THURSDAY
When Thursday rolls around, though, I realize it's a little silly to be looking for a job when I don't plan to move for months, so instead I hit the gym, make mani/pedi appointments with Yoon at the Elizabeth Arden Red Door Spa (919 N. Michigan), and take a sightseeing trip down to University of Chicago. U Chicago is gorgeous, and I think I'd be happy starting my Chicago life working there.

Yoon at Red Door is my new hero. She's a tiny little woman, but she sets to work on my pedicure (which invloves lots of callus-busting) with the strength and vigor of a Russian cage-match champion. Shasta comes in soon after Yoon begins and has her mani done by Asya, another nail master at Red Door. By the time we walk out of the salon, we are perhaps not new women, but we're sure as hell improved.

We have dinner and drinks at Cheesecake factory, and then call it a night. I head back to the Hard Rock and go to the hotel bar, Base Bar, for a birthday-eve cocktail. My bartender can't make any suggestions, which is bizarre, since I've essentially asked her to make something sweet and dessert-y. Who doesn't know of at least three sweet drinks these days? I tell her to make me a chocolate martini and then tell her how to make it. Christ. I've got a bartender with no skills. At least she can follow directions. I head back to my room, watch a little telly and raid the minibar again. Thursday ends well.

FRIDAY
M rolls into town, and we head out to Rogers Park for lunch at one of her favorite Indian spots, Tiffin on Devon. We have a derishus lunch buffet and stuff ourselves full-to-bursting with spicy goodness, then head off to shop a little. Very little. Before we know it, it's an hour until dinner.

Alinea.

Swank, sophisticated, pretentious. Brilliantly innovative, creative, gorgeous. Outstanding food. Tops Bouley, in my opinion, in both palate and presentation. And god, the presentation. Shas has pictures here. Bison on a hot rock nestled in a bed of juniper branches? Mace scented pillows on which to balance your duck and foie gras? Genius. More than genius. Chef/owner Grant Achatz is a culinary savant. From the opening dish, Hot Potato (a cold potato soup served in a half-dollar sized paraffin bowl skewered with potato and black truffle) to the finish, the menu was simply superb. There were a few standouts: the salsify with smoked salmon and steelhead roe; pork with honeycomb, grapefruit and puffed pork thigh; kobe beef topped with roasted squash seeds and paprika candy. I actually shut down my extraneous senses when I tasted the duck with foie gras, quince and onion--closed my eyes and tuned everyone out. I will never forget that foie gras, ever. Sigh.

The beauty of Alinea is that there is a high degree of fun hidden in all the pomp. Ice cream in Achatz's world comes in a single bite set on a the gastronomic equivalent of a radio antenna, and the hovering waitstaff insist you eat it witout using your hands. A complimentary shot glass of green liquid with what looks to be an egg yolk is set before each diner. Enquiry (or patience) reveals the liquid is a celery-base, the yellow globe a shell of madras curry; shoot it, close your mouth quickly to collapse the shell, and enjoy the ensuing burst of deliciousness. Get the sommelier with the goatee. He's a punk-rock oenophile. How can you go wrong?

(Oh, that's right. You could be a large-ish group of siddity negroes [me, Shas, Mr. C., and LadyFriend, plus M--honorary affiliation, hailing from Texas and all]. In which case you will heed the sommelier's advice, have a grand time, and scare away two couples by being "too loud." You know, despite the fact that there is another (white) party of nearly equal size and equal decibels across from your own (and next to) the parties seated in your section who complain about the cuhluhd folks, and your group gets shushed by waitstaff. But other than that? Brilliant.)

After the meal (and a delightful, quarter-sized saffron birthday cake with fully edible candle and wick) we get a peek in the kitchen, where Achatz and team are working in the most pristine preparation conditions you never imagined. Show-offs.

Thanks, Mr. C. Best birthday celebration I've ever had.

Then we hit Base Bar, where I again have the bartender from Hades, lacking in skill, general drink-mixing knowledge AND appropriately ameliorative attitude. Worse, the other bartender and server prove to be in cahoots with Busty McNoskills and rather than just letting the other bartender make my drink, actually have him tell her how to mix it and then make him hide and pretend to have gone home for the night to "prove" how much she has improved in her mixology. Sigh. Called it an earlyish night.

Saturday, M changed my life.
Ann Sather for brunch. They made french toast OUT OF CINNAMON BUNS. Holy hell. Do I need to explain the significance? I think not. And if I do, let me say this: make yourself some fatty, sweet, stickylicious cinnamon buns, roughly half the size of your head. Now slice said buns, dip them in eggy-sweet batter, and cook it up. Now top with sugar-glazed pecans and a side of hazlenut creme fraiche. Yeah. It was like that. Oh, plus pork sausage. *dopey grin*

Then we shopped. Lord and Taylor, with coupons! I got two pairs of earrings and some Chanel lippy. M got a leather wallet, earrings, and some other things I can't recall, and then hauled me over to Intimacy, the bra-fitting and lingerie shop.

Ladies, if you have never had yourself properly fitted for a bra, slide your chair back, rise, and run--don't walk--to the nearest lingerie shop. It will change your life. Seriously. In under 10 minutes I went from a sad 40C to a very perky-looking 36E/38DD. I also went from broke to busted, but that's another story. The point is, you are very likely wearing the wrong bra size, and your Mary-Kate and Ashleys are going to suffer for it. I got three beautiful bras (one of which my rep, Liz, had sent off to the factory to custom fit from a 38 to a 37DD, free of charge) for, okay, I really don't want to tell you. But it was worth it. I had to leave the coral-red number, with the bows and ruching behind, however. At $150, it was nearly as expensive as the combined cost of the three I took home. No matter. No one to see it showing MK and A in all their glory, anyway. Or is there?

Later, M and I get tarted up for a girls' night out and head over to Cafe Bernard on North Halsted, a wonderful French cafe with absolutely perfect ambience and delightful food at a moderate price: we each get an appetizer, entree and dessert, plus share a bottle of wine, for about $100 total before tip. On the way out, I ask the genial owner/proprietor Bernard if he has a card. He does. It says you can eat there for $5 on your birthday, as long as you bring at least one other person. Zoinks. If only we had known sooner. Always next year.

After dinner, we head over to our favorite Irish pub, Johnny O'Hagan's (or O'Hanrahans, as we have affectionately mis-dubbed it). It is in fact our second trip for the day. Did I neglect to mention that? Whoops. Love it there. Usually it is quite low key when we go, but on this Saturday night, it is packed with humanity. Drunken girls recklessly eyeball us, bouncers booty dance at the bar, someone dons a blonde wig and dances on the bar to ABBA, then passes the wigh to someone else who dances on the bar to the BeeGees. And their buffalo wings and curry chips are to die. O'Hanrahan's might actually be Heaven. We'll see.

After a round we try to hit a dance club we saw in the TOC but the promoters prove to be shady bastards who try to charge on what is listed as a cover-free night. We get a cab ASAP and return to the hotel to crash and prep for champagne brunch at Angelina's, with Shas on Sunday.

SUNDAY, BLOODY SUNDAY.
Bloggy,
I have met my shadow self, and she is one toxic motherfucking bitch. I think I should hate her. She's selfish and aggressive and vindictive and bitchy as hell (no wait, that's just me). I know I should hate her. But I don't. I actually think I'm starting to like her, and that troubles me.

I'm all for having a responsible good time. Eating and drinking and a little fuckery on vacation are all well and good, as long as nobody gets hurt. But Shadow Self (let's call her WonderSlut), really just wants to drink whisky and climb that big, baldy Chicago Irish tree getting his groove on after the Super Bowl. And she really wants to do this despite the fact that a little gold band flashes warningly with every silly jiggy move he pulls on the dance floor, and he's got almost as many children as fingers on that married left hand.

What the fuck, bloggy? What should we do?

Wait. Let's start from the beginning, yes?

Bloody Mary Sunday: Angelina's not only is a darling Boystown spot with fabu eggs bene, and a $20 champagne brunch, no. It also has apparently the end-all-be-all bloody Mary with beer back for your bloody Mary-swilling friends *cough*M*cough* Joy for everybody. M and I meet Shas there and have divine brunches (me: eggs bene; M: er, um, eggs and bacon; Shas: her usual, apparently, which our waiter is quite familiar with) plus, well, champagne.

After, M says she wants to make the early train home to the 'Zoo, but is up for another round at O'Hanrahans. I deviously conspire to keep her in town for another few hours, and with the help of another round of beer and two girlfriends displaying their haul from nearby hipster-haven Strange Cargo, it works. We shop. Strange Cargo is the kind of place Urban Outfitters tries to be, minus the shitty corporatization and outrageous markups. I get my Guns tee for $5. $5!

M leaves on a later train and I meet Shas for dinner.

Lawd.

See, it was like this. On Saturday and early Sunday, Shas says she has to work on Monday, so she won't be engaging in any drinky Sunday night.

Then Sunday night comes, and she is just full of drinktastic suggestion: Industry Night at Leg Room. Half price martinis. On Superbowl Sunday. I just know we'll be out before the post-'bowl partiers show up. Not So. We're there for hours. Like, from 9ish 'til closing. And in the intervening hours?

We met the Tims.

You know, suddenly, I'm feeling rather shy about all this. Let's just say that we had some drinks, some dances, some laughs. Eventually, some of us (me) got a little carried away with some of them. What can I say? Some of us really, really like big blue-collar, bald-headed types, and after a few whiskies found ourselves alternately kissing-licking-biting-and-sucking, and fending off retaliatory sneak attacks from behind (you know, in the name of morals and propriety). And failing, miserably.

What? Sorry, flashback. Did I seriously lick his head? In public? Shit.

Oh hell. What's the dif? Do we (WonderSlut and I) feel horrible? Notsomuch. Not sure why not, though, Bloggy. Could be that there was just too much sexy. I mean, when you can kiss a man you know is a married father of four and think not "I am an evil WonderSlut," but "Hell, if this was coming home to me most nights, I'da been knocked up four times already, too," well, you're in a very losing battle. Pray somebody will draw you aside and tell you to keep your pants on. Then mentally resolve to thank her later. Uh, and then resolve to never, ever do get yourself into that situation again.

Hell bloggy, it's getting late.

On the fourth day of fuckery the cosmos gave to me...

Four hours sleep,
Three breakfasts
Two drunken brawls
And a cheater in a white teeeeeeeeee!

Again, I am awakened at the asscrack of dawn. M is determined not to waste her last full day in town, and she has been dying to get to some place for breakfast burritos. (Breakfast burritos: M as beef chow fun: Sid)

I am a) exhausted, since I am going on day four of less than 5 hours sleep, b) still all wonky from the night before, c) really just wanting my French toast and snausages. I whine a little bit and try to either cajole them into a place with a bit more variety or convince myself breakfast isn't worth it and I should go back to sleep.

M pretty much says, fuck you, I'm getting breakfast burritos, bitch, make up your mind or get out of my way. You know, except without the cussing. I am such a fucking sucker for indifference.

A half hour later I'm marching (stumbling) through the brisk San Francisco morning toward a new breakfast frontier.

I can't even remember the name of the place. I only recall that it was perhaps the only place in town that had neither French toast nor sausage of any kind. I had a bagel sandwich. M and C had ginormous burrito things and seemed quite satisfied with them. Later, I stop in a 7-11 and hook myself up with a big ass, day-old apple frittery thing to simulate the fat-sugar-starch triumvirate of wonder that is the French toast breakfast. We lurch on to a farmer's market somewhere near the water, M and C will have to fill you in here, I don't remember the details.

I do, however, remember hanging around said market just long enough to get hungry again and eat Aidell's maple-bacon sausages from a booth.

Do you copy? Bacon in a sausage. There are no words for how obscene (genius) a concept this is. But it's a chicken sausage, and it also has sweet potato in it, so it isn't really as bad as it's made out to be.

Much like this trip, eh?

We work our way back to Fisherman's Wharf, hop a cable car, and by 1 p.m. we are back at the hotel. M and I have kicked around the idea of some mani/pedi time, but I am truly too goddamn tired by this point to even pretend I care how my extremities look, let alone fall for that old indifference trick again. I opt for a nap and pass the hell out.

I vaguely recall M coming in at some point and then going back out. When I wake, it is after 3 and she and C are nowhere to be found. I mean, I don't actually look very hard. I call them.

They took a tour of her old stomping grounds and are now at some little Belgian frites and beer cafe called Frjtz (579 Hayes St.) I hop in a cab and meet them for a little pre-dinner eat-and-drink. When I get there, I find them in the back garden, sucking down Hoegardens and chowing on frites and mayo. Yum. I put in my order, pick up another round for the table, and we relax under toasty heat lamps in the rear garden, under the setting sun.

After, we head out to the Haight-Ashbury area for dinner at a place M calls Curry Club. It is called Citrus Club (1790 Haight St.). (See "Bombay Club," "Le Colonial," Day One) It is very cute and has a great Southeast Asian menu. The wait for a table ends up taking forever. By the time we are seated, I am in a funk.

M and C are tired. We are all, however, excited by the prospect of satay and spring rolls and sake martinis. They all get high marks. The entrees are good, too, but not great. I ordered pad Thai, and it was oddly creamy. Eh. M's tom kha was good though, and served in a bowl that looked like it was designed to feed 6. C said his noodle dish was satisfactory

We head out and M feels like she has failed us because dinner wasn't as good as expected and we're all low key and quiet. I think we were all just tired as hell. We march up to another brew-hall she used to haunt and after a while (*cough*MM and Coke*cough*) we are all quite cheery again.

We head out. Do we sensibly go back to the Fairmont to pack and rest? No...Blackthorn.

We really should know better than this, as everyone has an earlyish flight the next day. Oh well.
We all roll in like we own that place, and some big fellow has the goddamn nerve to stop us at the door and card. He looks at my shit like he's memorizing my address. Hmph.

We settle in and find the place lousy with Irish boys (*wink* Okay, there were maybe a half dozen. Whatever.). Score. At some point, we play darts and pool, neither of which I do at all well, in part because I haven't done either in at least three years, and in part because, hello, I've been tippling since sundown. M tells me later that I am really terrible at darts. 1. See prior sentence. 2. I wasn't the only one bouncing darts off the walls, damnit. I am so sensitive.

Anyway, at some point, I decide to get a snack. I head out and the bouncer points me to the market next door. I come back with a huge bag of cheesey flavored potato chips that I share with anybody who wants in (M, me, some guy on my other side at the bar.)

We are there for a long-ass time. Eventually, the crowd thins and it's just me, M, C, IB, the bouncer, and a few very drunk stragglers. Irish stragglers. At some point, I begin to flirt with the bouncer, who is large, thug-cute in that Cube-teddy bear sort of way. He's from Texas, so he gets a thumbs-up from M. He "works with kids" and used to play arena football. The latter, he says, gives him a size complex, since, at a full foot taller than me and enough over 6 feet that it's noticeable, he is "small." I really don't care about any of this, but I am reassured by his seemingly good heart and the alleged possession of a BA. I don't know why, leave me alone.

At some point I decide to go back to talking with M and C. One of the still straggling Irish guys decides to chat me up in the most charming of ways. He marches over, says, "Come over here and talk to us!" I say no, so he steals my drink. Stands up, takes it, and jogs back to his post. I think he might have actually patted the seat next to him.

God in heaven. Un-smooth. And he's not very cute. But that is funny as hell.

Let us just say I went over to retrieve the drink, declined a threesome, and a kiss, then settled for a little spank as compromise.

One loud, serious whack and a pinkened bottom later, I am reminded of IB's warning on the first night: never tangle with an Irishman in an Irish bar. (Later, M has a hand in ejecting this particular fellow from the bar. She manages not only to jokingly accuse one of the two Irish lads of being gay because of his lisp, she manages to lay the spanker out by tripping him. Really, this is teamwork at its finest: C handled drinkin', M held it down with the brawlin', I anchored with a little whorin'.)

This is about the time I decide that I'd be better off behind the bar (again), cleaning up with IB and the bouncer, whose name is Du-something. At some point, we play a little tonsil-hockey. Then, while we are waiting for the other staff folks to get ready to lock up, we chat some more at the bar. This is when he puts his hand on it and I notice two things: 1. His nails are too goddamn long. I can see white beyond the nail bed. I hate, hatehatehate, long nails on men. 2. He is wearing a very yellow-gold ring on the third finger of his left hand. Oh, barf.

Of course, I ask, "Is that a wedding ring?" because I'm real quick like that. He confirms it. At my "Oh hell, you're married?" (barf) he responds, "I never said I wasn't!" Cuh-lassy! (Says the girl only two paragraphs prior being publicly spanked.) And in case you were wondering, as I was by that point, yes he does have children. Three. Goddamnit. This man has led to the breaking of four of my top ten Will-Not-Considers: married, father, long-fucking-nails, name beginning with Du, La, Rae, or any other goddamn note. (While I am mortified by all this now, I am reminded that I really do need a lot more kissing in my life, stat.) I'd love to go hide immediately and for the duration of our trip, but it turns out Du-married is our ride back to the hotel. Also, he is huge and it is veryvery cold when we get outside so I avail myself of his frame between door and car, solely for protection from the cold, I assure you.

I'm not proud of myself. I happen to take fidelity very seriously. But it was cold as hell! And it's not like I kissed him after I found out! Um. Ahem.

Once again, we have shut down a bar. And it is after four in the morning and we have yet to pack and at least one of us has a flight before 10, in theory. So naturally we all go immediately to sleep.

We are damn fools.

Blookers and Ho! Or, Frisco Day Three: In which the hunnids actually get spent, though not on hookers or blow. But they're there

Action Items
1. Make way to deYoung Museum
2. Get pretty for fancy nosh at Chez Panisse

It's always the days that seem most straightforward that go shockingly awry.

M was up at 5:43 Friday morning.

Do you hear me? 5:43.

She wanted to go to a 6 a.m. spinning class in the hotel gym. I'm serious.

She may or may not have attempted it with C. I think she went, but it was cancelled. I dunno. See my response from the previous day for further information.

It is raining. None of the weather sources I checked before the trip predicted rain, and yet, there it is. Lucky I've brought my miracle hat, which keeps blowouts fresh in inclement weather, for when I get back to New York. Later, I will lose this wonderful hat on a train, another sacrifice to the gods of travel. I had tried to make an offering of an unmated earring, the other having been lost on a prior trip, but that sacrifice was rejected.

By 8, we are all on our way out to get breakfast. M and C have planned spa treatments to last most of the morning and into the afternoon. My original plan had been to get a new tat, but I decided against it, so my only plan was to see the Hatshepsut and Art Deco exhibits at the deYoung in Golden Gate Park.

We wander down Powell and find a bustling, promising spot near Union Square called Sears Fine Foods (439 Powell). I get my standby, French toast, poached eggs and this time, sausage. M gets little silver dollar pancakes with lingonberry topping and C gets steak and eggs, you know, since he's the one with cholesterol issues. He's trying to lower it with reverse psychology, I reckon.

Breakfast is great, and our waitress, though busy, is like Johnny-on-the-spot with the coffee and attentiveness.

After, with a little time still to kill, we all visit the nearby Sephora and I pick up a few things. As does M.

Then M and C head off to their respective appointments and I set off to find the deYoung.

Did you know that trying to puzzle out San Fran's overlapping, interlocking systems of mass transit is like trying to shove your left arm through a meat grinder without shedding blood or feeling pain? It is. It is just like that.

I go through a lot of strife and suffering on my way to the museum. (I had originally written a very detailed account, but then realized no one would care.)

1. deYoung Museum
I hop off at the appropriate stop and find myself back near the Blackthorn. I wander in the general area for a bit before moving on to Golden Gate Park and the deYoung.

Unfortunately, when I get to the museum, there is a line that stretches out the door and two thirds of the way down the length of the building. The people in line behind me send a member of their team to do a little recon, and discover that the wait is at least an hour long.

Fuck that, I think, and jump out of line to wander back to Nob Hill. Along the way I stop at Hagiwara Tea Garden, because it is there and I came to see something damnit and my coworkers are both nosy and judgmental so I have to have something on the up-and-up to report when I get back. Pictures of fucking bonsai trees and gentle streams bubbling over rock ought to shut--er, satisfy them. Plus, it's only $3.50 to get in.

I return to Nob Hill and pick up some more chow fun before retreating to the hotel. Both M and C are still out, so I have a little lie-down. Then C returns and shows off his mani and new cache of man-products. Oooh. Hawt.

We head down to the hotel bar for drinks. By the end of the first round, M has returned. We decide to head over to the Top of the Mark, the restaurant and bar atop the Intercontinental Mark Hopkins Hotel. The view is grand, but the hostess is catty and the server is so-so. Also the Negroni I order is goddamn disgusting. M and C taste and concur with suitably contorted faces. We have another round and then return to get pretty for dinner at Chez Panisse (1517 Shattuck Ave, Berkeley).

2. Dinner at Chez Panisse
C is loving the idea of living large and hires a car to take us out to the restaurant, in Berkeley, before we get ready. When we all reconvene in our finery, we head down to the Fairmont bar again for a final round before heading off to dinner. Our driver is a tall russet-haired drink of water named J. She's right up C's alley. (Or not. Later, he keeps exclaiming, "Man, she was tall!" I don't know quite what that means.) When we arrive, our table is not ready, so we wait upstairs at the bar.

You see where this is going. It's close to 9 and we are already on round eleventy-five. Okay, like, four, in about five hours, but still.

When we are finally seated, we are presented with an aperitif...wine.

Then we get a gorgeous salad of greens and cheese, butter-soft lamb with onions, a dessert of hazelnut ice cream and chocolate fondant. All incredibly, amazingly, wonderfully delightful, truly the most delectable meal I think I've ever had. And all really quite small. No problem for the girl who had fatty chow fun and beef for lunch, or the gal who picked up maki and sashimi on the way back from a spa treatment in Japantown. Big trouble for the fellow who has had nowt but booze since his steak and eggs twelve hours earlier.

By the end of dinner, C is mumbling things like, "I wan' go home" and, "I love you both, but I wan' go sleep," and has, in his own words, X's over his eyes. The waiters, with impeccable service and timing, bring us bread and cheese and ignore the fact that one of our party is falling asleep and the other two are a touch too loud. M wants to snog the maitre'd and sends C, all junior high-style, to get his info on the way out. Sigh.

Eventually, we get back to the hotel to find our message light blinking. It's IB. He's now off for the evening and wants to meet us...for drinks. At OSB. See "Dodgy, Tenderloin, Day One."

M and I are up for it. Especially me, since I've had the presence of mind to realize we ate very little actual food during our foray into fine dining, and I am now sucking down the copious leftover fatty lunch noodles. M takes exception to this, claiming I am befouling the memory of dinner. Meh. It wasn't about quality at that point. It was about quantity.

She and I change into proper whorin'brawlin'drinkin' attire and continue to try to rally C, who is damn near passed out on our bed. He pretends to be going next door to change, then returns. In his pajamas and hotel-issue plush bathrobe. Clever bastard.

We poke at him some more, and at some point, I try to pants him in an attempt to, I dunno, humiliate him into more drink? Yell, "Well, now you've GOT to put something else on!" while I sit on the pants I've just pilfered? I have no bloody idea what I was thinking at that point. I do know, however, that despite the fact that both of his hands were tucked up under my pillow, those pajama bottoms did. Not. Budge. It was amazing. Truly. If everyone had a pair of those bitches to wear, why, rape and molestation would be history! (Later, I discuss the wonder that is C's pajama-bottoms with M, who says, "I think he's very protective of his package." To which I respond, "And well he should be! But I don't care about the why, I care about the how!")

C sneaks back into his room and off to sleep. M and I grab a cab and zip down to OSB.

We get there before IB and take up posts next to two very unconvincing but perfecly acceptably-fabulous trannies. I generally ignore such non-conformity, but M apparently was giving them the hairy-eyeball, in a lovingly admirational sort of way, she says, so not so much hairy eyeball as The Eye. Or something. Whatevers. Shortly thereafter, the trannies took off.

This is where it all goes to hell.

This is where we meet "Chuck," a lanky, stick-thin hipster type who decides we will be his new best friends for the night, as his attempts to tangle with the strippers next door have failed. Not that he's horrible or anything. But it's just, well, he's odd. For instance, despite telling us that, if there were a fabulousness contest, the three of us would come in first, second and third, he proclaims it irksome that some folks think he's the gay. Wha? you are holding fabulousness contests in your head, and are puzzled by this? Also, he keeps trying to invite himself back to our hotel to do coke. I cannot believe I am even writing this down. Who looks at me and thinks "Oh yeah, she looks like she'd like to dance with the white lady." Or whatever, I don't even know how the kids refer to it these days. Um, no, captain, not a chance. Also, at some point, he spanks me, and not particlarly well. It is a rather limp-wristed spank. I have gotten much better spanks in my life, and will in fact get better before the trip is out. Hm. Perhaps I should have left that bit out.

M has also picked up an admirer, named E, who she decides is the saddest human being she has ever met, and who just will not stop fucking touching her face and mooning over her. I am spotting a trend for M and the San Fran boys. But I digress.

Periodically, a crackhead wanders in and hits up the classy clientele for lights, drinks, etc. He is white. I wish I could have it on tape to send to newsrooms across the country. Just as evidence. I also realize I never want to tend bar in a place like this, as fun as it is to visit now and again. Onward.

By this time, IB is in the house and stirring up trouble. He is already lit when he arrives and says "Fuck you!" an hilariously awful lot. Like this: "Fuck you! Drink the shot!" or, "Fuck you! You're gay!" to Chuck. Generally, everything is preceded by "Fuck you!" but it is okay because he is cute and buying and Irish.

Also, poor boy is likely very frustrated by the fact that M has spent the bulk of the evening alternating between sitting in his lap and sucking his earlobes and yelling, before assembled company, "Oh IB, we're never having sex, you know!" While everyone points and laughs. (For the love of god, woman. Why didn't you just slice off one of his testicles in Central Park? Much less publicly embarrassing, lol).

Eventually, IB is buying (?) so many rounds M starts hiding them. Hiding her drinks. Behind the limes and shit, like they were broccoli. This is the funniest thing I have seen in my life, ever. Until later, when the bar is closed and a bunch of us are sitting around shooting the shit and M almost gets into a mock-brawl with a little ambiguously hispanical man with a face like a Toltec head. Yay, first actual brawlin' of the trip! Of course, by this point, I don't notice the near brawl, because I am behind the bar getting drinks for the bartenders who are now seated at the bar waiting for our cabs. I learn about the near-brawl later, along with another one she almost started. Crazy.

M, IB and I all pile into a cab and speed on home. When we get in, it is after 4 in the morning. The day has been a good 20 hours long. God help us. But it was fun.

Frisco Day Two: The One in Which Nobody Violates a Commandment.

Action Items:
1. See some of the city
2. Procure more fatty Chinese noodles
3. Dinner w/a bunch of Irish folks at an Irish bar
4. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, M!!!
5. Movie?

I opened my eyes around 6:16. I don't remember why, precisely, but I think it had something to do with the fact that M and C were talking about how they weren't going to fucking make it to their fun run. But they would go to the hotel gym for full workouts to atone.

My response?

"Bye muhfuggas, wake me when you get back!"

Of course, I then proceed to wake up fully, journal and shower, because I am an asshat. Who doesn't sleep when she should. At some point, M and C return and we head out for brekkie.

We get no further than the hotel breakfast room, which has a derishus looking morning spread. Nearly everything each of our little hearts could desire. We stuffed ourselves just shy of crazy. Whoops. There goes that non-violation of commandments thing. Oh no, wait, gluttony is a sin, not excluded in the commandments. Excellent. Onward.

1. See City
We wander off to explore the glory that is Chinatown. Then we wander into Little Italy. M takes mass while C and I wander a wee bit more. Then M returns and we wander in the general direction of some beat-poet hippy bookstore, I don't remember which, M is the lit teacher after all. No wait, it's called City Lights. Whatevers. It is closed. It is Turkey Day after all. Even hippies gotta eat. And on Turkey Day, you can usually scare up something for free. Fortunately, Vesuvio Caffe (255 Columbus Ave.) is right next door, ready to welcome us into its slam-poetry -birthing arms. We have a round. It is just after noon.

Again, it isn't a commandment, people.

M tries to convince us that, despite the fact that there is a titty bar on practically every block in this particular neighborhood, we aren't in the red light district. That San Francisco doesn't even have one, it's everywhere. I'll buy that when the harpist who plays in full evening dress at the Fairmont bar breaks it down with some booty-clapping.

We wander through North Beach down to Fisherman's Wharf and look at all the people and sniff at sourdough bakeries and what have you. A gruby street hawker looks at us and yells to C, "Hey man, you got two women with you, alright!"

"That's just how we do in Chicago," C replies.

I love his crazy ass.

At some point, we watch the sea lions lazing on the floaty docks. We take some pictures of the splendor around us. Then we (I) start getting grumpy. I'm hungy. I have been promised fatty Chinese noodles (see Action Item #2), but nobody else is peckish. And I've worn my heeled boots rather than my Pumas, and we have been walking forever. It's a funny time, since we know we'll be doing Thanksgiving dinner in a few hours. But I'm still goddamn hungry, and ready to throw a fit. (Listen, there are three of us. At any given time, two will be grown-ups and one will be child. It's just how the dynamic works, damnit.)

We stop by a bakery, the name of which I cannot recall, and buy a big sourdough turkey, which is adorable as all get out. I am somewhat appeased.

Then we get outside and M decides it's too cute to eat right there. We should save it for the big dinner.

I'm not, shall we say, thrilled with this decision? But before I can kick up a proper fuss, some gnarly homeless-looking dude, who has been sitting quitely, holding a bunch of bushy branches in front of himself, all cartoon-commando style, jumps out of nowhere and scares the holy-rolling-motherfuck out of the lot of us. The small crowd that has assembled to watch Ram-bro scare the shit out of unsuspecting passersby finds us highly amusing. Bitches.

I temporarily forget my hunger.

We stagger up to the Ghirardelli Square shop because M thinks I really want to see it. I don't remember, maybe I had wanted to, but by the time we get there I want to die. But you see, the beauty of a good traveling group is the ability of the happy members to rally the bitching one. I want coffee, you see, something to pick me up. M spots the Buena Vista Cafe (2765 Hyde St.) and says, "Hey, I bet they got Irish coffees there!"

Bless her.

Yeah, we had those. And some nachos and buffalo wings, too. Thank friggin' Christ.

After that, I'm golden. We hobble several blocks back toward the hotel, trying to catch a cab. No dice. C finally procures one like, five blocks (or ten, whatever), from the hotel, which would normally piss me off, having walked as far as we have, but have you seen those goddamn hills? I am happy for anything by this point.

When we get to the hotel, IB calls to tell us dinner has been moved up from 5:30 to 5. We need to hie ourselves over to the dinner spot, O'Reilly's Irish Pub (622 Green St.), ASAP, since it is well after 4. So we clean up, grab our contributions to the meal--M's birthday cake, a bottle of vino and that fucking bread-turkey--and hop into another cab.

The cabby gets frustrated with the progress a car ahead of us is making, though, and zips around them. There is an ominous thunk-y sound as we pass, but cabby speeds us on down to the bar. As we pay and I'm waiting for our change, the car from before rolls up. The passengers are pissed. The cabby, they say, clipped their car.

M, C and I sort of slink off into the bar while cabby ("I've got three witnesses who saw you swerve into my lane!" and the other car's passengers ("Sir, we were trying to pull into that driveway!" battle it out.

3. Dinner with the, oh for love of Mary, you know we only hung out with Irish folks, let's just call it dinner.

IB isn't there yet, but he soon shows up and we meet his assembled crew of compatriots: a couple of funny Irish blokes and their cute American-hipster ladyfriends.

We sit down to an Irishish take on Turkey-day dinner: a $38 prix fixe menu of oxtail soup, turkey with ham and gravy, mashed potatoes, mashed yams, cranberry sauce, stuffing, buttery veggies and dessert. We share our wine (gone in a snap) turkey bread (M licks its "eyeball" in front of assembled company to determine its substance. We think it was an olive. Did I mention the sharing of wine? Oh, okaygood.) and the cake from some chocolicious heaven. Except, that cake, which was supposed to serve 10-12 people, served all eight of us, with 2/3 of the cake to spare.

4. Happy Birthday, M!
We should really have shared it with the folks at the other table, a big, rowdy bunch of folks who jumped right in when we sang M "Happy Birthday." It was fabulous. Hippo Birdie, dear!

After dinner, we all return to the bar area for a round and some chat. I have no idea what in hell was discussed. I was someplace else, man, I'm a bitch like that. I don't remember why, though. I'm sure it all seemed very heavy and important at the time. Just as I was about to step out to take a stroll to clear my head, though, M and C got ready to roll, and we ended up heading back to the hotel, ostensibly to relax and find something else to do, like see a movie.

No dice. By the time we made it back and hunted down a paper to discover there was fuck-all to do besides eat and drink, M and C were ready for nighty-nights, and honestly, so was I.

So of course we all sat around having a goddamn pajama party until near midnight before finally going to sleep. For the love of God. If C had more hair, and they weren't both doing spa treatments the following day, it would totally have devolved into curlers, facials, pillowfights and nail-polishing.

So you see? At least one night of the Hills, Thrills and Hunnid Dolla Bills tour ended rather quietly.

San Francisco--The Hills, Thrills and Hunnid Dolla Bills Tour: Day One

Action Items
1. Early Flight
2. Drop Bags @ Fairmont
3. Explore
4. Cake
5. Meet up with M and Mr. C.
6. Dinner, drinks, call it an early night.

1. Early Flight

Sometime during all my preparation for this trip, I decided I wouldn't sleep the night before my 7:30 a.m. flight, I'd sleep on the plane.

Ha bloody ha ha ha.

Tuesday night, around midnight, before departure, I decided I needed to repack my bag, clean my apartment, restyle my hair and take a long leisurely bath. Unfortunately, I'd decided the week before that Super Shuttle would be unreliable and show up late again, so when I made my reservation I pretended my flight left an hour earlier than it did. Which meant my shuttle was scheduled to arrive around 3:30 in the morning. Which, in case you hadn't noticed, was a mere 3.5 hours from the time I decided to complete the aforementioned tasks.

I repacked, did some dishes and took a bath. As I was preparing to add a little bounce to my coif, though, my cell rang. Super Shuttle. Waiting for me downstairs. I check my clock. It is 3:07.

"You're here already?!" I squeak. I was planning on another 45 minutes, at least. Shit.

I tear around my apartment, gathering up last minute "necessities," and fly out the door.

Only to get downstairs and discover that they are also picking up a passenger at the hotel next door. Which means we sit for another twenty minutes. Around the time we finally pull away, I become half-convinced I left my curling iron on. A series of horrid fantasies run through my head, and even though I am certain I never even got the chance to plug the thing in, in fact checked it to be sure on the way out, I imagine I'll return to find my building a pile of smoldering ash. It should say something about my state of mind and feelings about my life lately that I decide against calling anyone to check. I mean, I did double-check it, you know. Um.

I get to the airport more than two hours early, before the ticket agents even set up. Sit around until I can check in, then spend the next few hours lurching from gate to gate as Delta changes the departure gate three times.

When I finally board the packed plane, I do the little open-mouthed head-bobbing sleep dance for a while and wake to find we are still on the bloody runway. Open-mouthed head-bob some more. Wake again to find we are in the air, and have only been so for maybe an hour. Repeat until three hours into flight, then wake up, unable to sleep any more, listen to music until landing. In San Francisco, it is 10:45 a.m.

2. Drop Bags @ Fairmont

I take BART from the airport to the Embarcadero stop, then switch to a Muni bus. I hop off a block down the hill from the hotel and hike up. By the time ascent is complete, my lungs are buring.

I walk into the Fairmont and have a little freak-out. Now, we have stayed in some lovely hotels during past adventures, but the Fairmont takes the cake. Grand entrance, marble and gilding and plush carpets and luxurious chaises. Gorgeous. I kept expecting someone to pop out in a tiara and demand my fealty. (Eventually, this would be M. Sans tiara and demands, but we did talk about getting her one.) The hotel is in M's name this trip, and she and Mr. C., who were on the same flight out of Chicago, won't get in until dinner time. It is, roughly, noon. Which means no nappietimes for me. So I check my bag and set off to procure eats and get my bearings.

3. Explore

On the way up the hill in that Muni bus, I noticed Chinatown was just a hopskip from the hotel. And since the rumbles in my tum-tum were approaching measurability on the Richter scale (it was, after, about 3 p.m. NYC time, and my last eats had been at about 5 a.m.), I began the billy-goat shuffle back down those crazy hills to get my grub on. I ended up at the Joy Hing Noodle House (943 Stockton), where I got what seemed like a 3 lb. order of really good beef chow fun for...drumroll...

$5.

:-D

I heart SF.

Then I set off, noodles in tow, to find a nice park to eat in and pick up M's birthday cake.

4. Cake.

I took a cab to Citizen Cake (399 Grove St.) and picked up the chocolatey masterpiece, then set off to eat my noodles and maybe find M's friend and Irish-bartending-computer-geek extraordinaire, IB, so I could maybe stick her cake in his fridge.

I call his last know bartending location and ask for him by name. The lady on the phone says she doesn't know if he works there. Shady. Very shady. I decide to walk up there and pop in, just in case she thought I was, I dunno, trying to serve him paternity papers or something.

I stop and eat my noodles in front of the public library, and feel vaguely obscene, as I am sitting there eating 3 lbs. of noodles and holding a $50 birthday cake in front of what must be 3/16ths of the city's homeless population.

I look around at all the lovely museums in the area and think, "This is lovely, I could live here."

Then I walk up to IB's sometime-bar, OSB (800 Larkin Street, @ corner of O'Farrell and Larkin). Holy shit, the Tenderloin. Holy shit, dodgydodgydodgy during daylight.** I cruise on by OSB and decide I'm taking my ass right back up to Nob Hill, thanksverymuch. Check the cake with my other bag at the hotel and set off to shop.

Powel Street and Union Square.

Tiffany & Co., Saks, Macy's. Urban, DSW, Sephora. Yippee.

5. Meet up with M and C.

M and Mr. C. call around 6. They're on their way. When they arrive, we drop our stuff off in the rooms and set off for drinks.

First stop: Tonga Room, the kitschy tiki restaurant in the Fairmont.

The drinks have a lot of lemon and orange juice, the sprinklers, simulating a light tropical rain or what-the-fuck-ever, go off in the middle of the floor--er, the pool, because that's what the place used to be, the Fairmont's indoor pool--and a top-40 cover band comes floating into the middle on a bloody barge. We only stayed for a round.

I didn't spend $70 getting my hair done to have it rained on indoors, bitches.

After, we headed back to the rooms to regroup and try to find an Indian restaurant M liked from her time in the city, only, she cannot remember the name. She thinks it is called Bombay Club. We ask the concierge. He looks it up, tries out a few places with similar names. Nope, not them. M goes, "I think it's in a little alley, called something like Bombay Club, Bombay..." and the concierge pauses.

"You might be thinking of Le Colonial." He says.

"That's it!" She exclaims.

"Oh yeah, you were real close," he deadpans.

Anyway, we go to Le Colonial (20 Cosmo Pl.), and it is not only lovelysexyromantic, all tricked out in low light with a Southeast Asian colonial theme, it also serves the best drinks we have during the entire trip. The signature drink, the Colonial--vodka, soda, guava juice--and the emerald Buddha--vodka, mint and citrus juice--are standouts. We also order their appetizer sampler. It is tasty, though not outstanding. No matter. The eye candy more than satisfies. Even early on a Wednesday night, the bar has a good number of multi-culti cuties and a mean DJ team who spin some, if I recall correctly--old school R&B and hippety hoppet. Or something.

We take off in pursuit of some Irish boy or another M knows from back in the day and, failing to find him, track her buddy IB down at one of his gigs at the Blackthorn.

Actually, first we grab some Indo/Pak fast food from a joint called the Naan N' Curry, which is suitably strongly flavored for the kind of fools who stumble in hours after they should have had a proper meal but decided to have a little drinky first. *cough*Us*cough* And then we go to Blackthorn Tavern (834 Irving).

Oh, how to put it... We shut that place down. IB is fun as heck, but he's working, so we drink, shoot some pool (horribly) with a few East coast Irish-American transplants (close, but not quite the Irish boys M and I had been seeking) and wait for IB to close. M has to beat the boys off with a stick. It is a glory to behold. No wonder she's determined to move back to this place.

Oh, did I mention that area allegedly has a higher concentration of Irish folks outside, I dunno, Belfast or something, than any city anywhere else in the world ever?!?! That might be an exaggeration, but it sure as hell seems like it. And I'm from Boston.

After closing, we talk some trash and I try to give IB an irritating nickname, since that's what I'm good at. After a few tries (I liked Ib-diddy, IB-nasty, and Mr. B the best), he gets suitably irritated and barks, "Don't try to tangle with an Irishman in an Irish bar!" Or something like that, I dunno, he's Irish, he could have been saying anything. Kidding. He is adorable, I loves him, and that's pretty much what he said. I think I might have stopped for 12 seconds or so. Then I came up with something else. Eh. Whatevers. 'Round 3 in the a.m. he locks up and we all hop into a cab and speed back to the hotel after dropping IB off at some party.

Then we put on our jammies and pass out, M and C proclaiming all the while that they are really going to get up in time for a 10K fun run that starts at 8 later in the morning.

Again: Whaaaaatevers.

That was, you might have guessed, the end of Day One. Looking back on it, that wasn't so very bad at all! Why, if I stopped here, that would seem downright tame!

Too bad there're three more days to cover.

*hanging head in shame*

**So of course my actual visit to OSB is after midnight with M. It was great. But you'll read all about that later.
*Some names have been changed to protect the extremely interesting.

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Siddity tips for travel II: How not to pack for your vacation

1. Do not bring six pairs of shoes, four different handbags, and only three pairs of underpants, for a four day vacation. Especially if you know you are going to buy more of anything, at any point.

2. Do not take a cocktail dress and sweater for fine dining and swank drunkeration when you know you are a bar and pub kinda gal.

3. The makeup and jewelery you were thinking about taking? Cut it down to half. Then leave even that at home.

4. Just because you can pack all of this extra and unnecessary crap into a single carry-on bag and your backpack, as you are the mighty-pack-mistress, and you can carry an extra fifty pounds around, no problem, for long distances, like through bloody Midway airport to the Orange line, does not mean you should.

5. Try to leave your NYC-attitude/game at home. Else you might find yourself snarling at friendly Midwesterners and threatening-but-not-really-threatening to try to off someone who has just asked you as politely as possible to not be so loud because they couldn't enjoy the concert with all of you party's jibber-jabber.