I'm careful to show my ticket at all times when in the "paid area" of the train station

Yesterday was my birthday, so Dorian and I decided to go out on the town to celebrate my getting one year closer to filling the inside of an urn.

We decided the occasion called for a beer.

We didn’t know where we’d have the beer as we didn’t really make any plans, but San Francisco is cool that way because you can walk almost anywhere in the city and come across things you haven’t discovered before, so you go, “Hey, that looks cool!” and then you go in.

We went to The Castro District first, which is the gay mecca of San Francisco if not the world, because our bank is there and we needed money for our little adventure.

Our bank isn’t gay, I don’t think, but it’s like a block from Harvey Milk’s famous camera store so it’s at least gay friendly. I’m sure our bank and the camera store are good friends, and our bank goes to some of the gay parties that the camera store invites it to, just to be supportive, and maybe even they go shopping together, like on Sundays because that’s when the bank is closed.

Dorian adopts some hippies in the Castro

While leaving the bank, we came across some modern-day hippies who’d strategically placed themselves near an ATM to hustle for handouts. Their names were Lilly and “Clive.”

I put “Clive” in quotes because I can’t post the name he gave me, due to this being a family-friendly blog and I don’t want to shock your aunt Mabel.

Our conversation started because Lilly complimented Dorian on her artsy appearance, then I told them a story about seeing my first hippie in 1968 right here in San Francisco, then they complimented me on how well I was functioning given my age, since I’d just admitted to being sentient in 1968. They were impressed that I walk unaided and that they didn’t have to shout for me to hear them, although I admit I faked hearing almost half of what they said. Lilly is from a southern California city called Sam Dayglo and “Clive” arrived here last year, having itched a slide all the way from something called “the Nexus.”

We also pondered why people call them “modern-day hippies,” when the hippies in 1968 were “modern-day hippies” too, beings how it was modern day to THEM, back then.

Then we smoked a bowl and complimented irony.

I mean contemplated. We contemplated irony.

I almost said “comprehended.” We did that too, but just barely, ironically enough.

After I gave Lilly and Clive a couple of bucks for letting me take their picture and for giving back my wallet, Dorian and I decided to go out to a neighborhood called “West Portal,” because we seem to go to the Castro a lot and on this adventure we wanted to go somewhere where there weren’t any hippies we hadn’t visited much.

We hopped a train to get there and then walked around for a bit, until we came across a Mexican joint called “La Taqueria,” or something, so we decided to go in and have dinner.

Oh wait, the name is up on the sign.. *squints*.. EL TOR.. TOREEE.. UH.. DOR.. Ah, El Toreador! Yes, I know it well.

We had to wait for a table, which never takes over five minutes at Mexican restaurants when I flash my fake INS badge at the host.  We told him we’d be out front, because Dorian wanted to show off the new outfit she’d recently bought and have me take her picture.

Okay, the picture was my idea, so it’s not like she’s going around saying “Take my picture, I have a new outfit!” We just need to be clear on that.

We also didn’t tell the host WHY we’d be out front because we didn’t think he needed to know all the details about her outfit and the picture, because it seemed as though just telling him we’d be there would suffice. It turns out we were right because he never even asked, he just came out and got us when a table opened up.

Before he did that though, we were checking out the Peet’s Coffee next to the restaurant and made a snap decision to go have coffee there after our dinner because it was kind of close.

Once inside, we were seated at our table and Dorian grabbed the camera to take a picture of me, so this is what her view was like all through dinner..

I know, that chick in back over my shoulder is really cute, eh? LUCKY DORIAN!

I had an Alleycat beer, which comes in a ginormous bottle. This place has a selection of approximately 4, 392 beers from hundreds of foreign countries like France, Africa, Amsterdam and Arizona.

Dorian told me I resembled the alleycat on the label of the beer and I wasn’t sure how to take that, so I ate half her dinner.

I wonder what the alleycat on the label is drinking? It’d be pretty weird if it’s not an Alleycat beer, huh?

But if it is, then what label is on the bottle of HIS beer? It couldn’t be the label he’s posing for, because that didn’t exist yet due to the fact that he’s in the act of posing for it right then and there. No wonder they show him drinking it from a glass instead! Showing the label could theoretically unravel the entire space/time continuum.

I ponder these things. Especially after a 22 ounce Alleycat Beer that followed so closely on the tail of a hippie encounter in the Castro.

El Toreador has almost every kind of beer imaginable yet they still serve Bud and Coors, presumably to appease customers who are lacking in imagination.

El Toreador is a very colorful restaurant. They have a lot of splashy props and stuff, including fake birds and plants. You know that attraction at Disneyland where you go into the tiki-hut and it has all these birds that crack jokes and sing to you?

Well, El Toreador is exactly like that, except their birds don’t crack jokes or sing. They don’t even move, really, unless you’ve had more than a few Alleycats.

We left El Toreador and decided to blow off the Pete’s Coffee next door because it had closed by the time we got out so we thought, “Geez, if they can’t stay open like an hour later just so we could get a coffee then fine, they’re not getting OUR BUSINESS.”

We walked over to the West Portal train station to catch a train downtown because we decided to go to The Coffee Bean near Powell and Market instead.  We knew it’d still be open and we have friends who work there, because we go there all the time, and the staff decided long ago that they might as well be nice to us because they weren’t going to get rid of us very easily.

Fortunately the next train to come along was going downtown, which wasn’t a big surprise because on that side of the platform they ALL go downtown..

The train to take us downtown approaches at a high rate of speed, like, 7 miles per hour or something.

When we got down to The Coffee Bean it turned out that Kristie was the Barista, and she made us a couple of cappuccinos. She’s very friendly, super cute and possibly single, so if there are any guys reading this who are interested then just email her at Kristie@gothefuckaway.com or add her on Facebook.. her name is Kristie Backthefuckoffmothafuckabeforedavebeatsyoass. I think she’s Norwegian or something.

Kristie makes Kappuccinos while Dave Kompliments her.

Another short train ride to get home had us disembarking at Civic Center Station where Sam Austin can be found swinging his Sax around on most nights. Sammy is a cool cat who spins some righteous notes that waft through the air and light on the fancy of all who pass by. Then they hopefully toss a buck into his cup.

Sammy and Davy, swingin' cool and smooth as gravy.

We made it back safe and sound, so here I am posting about it while I continue to compliment the irony of it all.

I mean comprehend the irony. No wait.. contemplate.

It might be time for bed. Goodnight.