THE DANGERS OF MEDICAL MARIJUANA...

            I consider myself a bit of a professional when it comes to herbal remedies. Having my degree in marijuana, California was a brand new experience with this magic herb. Out here on the West Coast, we have this lovely thing called “medical marijuana”. Considering my high level of anxiety, I was eligible for this cosmic treat. Once acquiring my prescription, I discovered a brave new world more exciting than my first penis. The only reason I would ever consider weed better than cock is because my first adult experience with another man led me down the path of micro –penis. Anyone who’s been there knows what I’m talking about, however if you have a micro-member, my apologies and condolences are all yours. There are plenty of people that enjoy a pocket-sized penis, I’m just not one of them. Weed, however, is always good. It doesn’t matter what strain of natural herb I inhale, I enjoy it all. Penis, while I greatly love, is not quite as exciting as weed in my world. If I was on a deserted island and could only have three things, weed would be one, diet coke my second, and some form of stoner food would fill my bag. Sadly, I’d have to say goodbye to dick. Luckily for me, I live in San Francisco, California – the birthplace of homosexuality (by my report), so I don’t have to make that decision and I’m not moving to a desert island anytime soon.

            Back to my love of weed and medicinal marijuana, I found myself in awe of everything once I received my first prescription. Essentially I was able to walk into any number of pharmacies and legally obtain a filling for my pipe. Coming from the East Coast, I never knew such a world could exist like this. Walking into my endless supply of stores, I found more selections than had ever been offered to me. After being buzzed through a private waiting room, you would be escorted into a private room with no windows or ventilation, able to explore the possibilities. You could buy any number of strains, all with a lengthy story to their origin. The worn and tiring eyelids of their sales staffs suggested good product. Additionally, each salesperson had tried the assortment of product with great knowledge to educate me on where/how to spend my money. For years in Los Angeles, I had the opportunity to purchase whatever I wanted. In addition to the many strains of marijuana available to me, I was also able to purchase an endless assortment of edible products. Anything you can think of, they had. You want Rice Krispy Treats laced with weed? Done. Pot cookies? How about ten different flavors? Done. Weed Popcorn, lollipops, caramel, you name it – they had it. Over the years, I had purchased many an edible, but nothing ever seemed to happen. I seemed to be immune. Years ago – in my early twenties – I took edibles to euphoric highs. I can remember the days when a THC laced brownie would set me in a psychedelic craze for eight hours – easy. That was a number of years ago and times seemed to have changed for me. No matter what I ate, the results were always questionable. On occasion I felt something, but it was never anything close to the many cookies I ate years before.

            Arriving in San Francisco, by way of LA, everything changed. I’ll get into the edibles in just a moment, but first I’d like to paint a picture of my new home. Never having been to Amsterdam, personally, I have heard many a story about the progressive and free attitude towards marijuana there. Moving to Southern California, I encountered the closest parallel, being able to purchase my weed legally. Still, you didn’t smoke in public or anything like that. In actuality, Mary Jane – as they call it – has quite the stigma in Los Angeles, at least from what I observed. And it’s definitely not something you want to do in public. San Francisco is the closest thing I’ve known to Amsterdam. I’ve been at bars and smoked weed during open hours with the bartenders. Smoking joints throughout the streets with various friends, this is considered acceptable. Coming from a childhood plagued with a judgmental, dry household, this was the furthest leap I’d ever taken. I never imagined myself outside on a street corner smoking weed in the open, let alone in a bar. A day or so into my move, I was brought to a level of awareness with this green lover of a plant. People up here don’t even turn a side eye at you when you smoke weed. It doesn’t matter where you are, this plant is socially acceptable up north. Still, I find myself battling with my own inner goody-two-shoes (someone that’s been long-gone for years upon years) whenever such a thing comes up. Every time a friend offers me a joint, I look all around, paranoid as hell, like Lindsay Lohan should be doing before getting behind the wheel. Unluckily for the other driver son the road, when Lindsay’s in tow, that ain’t happening. I get nervous and crazy that the cops are going to arrest me. Funny enough, though, I’ve found many a police officer enjoying joints of their own or walking by as I am without batting an eye. I guess this is the closest to Amsterdam you can get without travelling across the sea.

            Within this world of open freedom to smoke, I have found the weed shops to be on a whole different level than those in Los Angeles. In Southern California, you have an intermediary room where you must be buzzed in before entering the counter to purchase your greenery. This was always freer than I could have ever imagined moving out west, but SF is different. Most of the shops will have open doors to the street, still with bouncers, but no intermediary room separating you from the gold. Here you can see just how busy each establishment is before entering the door. It’s just way more open. While I thought Los Angeles had so many different strains, San Francisco has menus when you walk into their stores. The sales staff are strangely far more professional – by my experience – and way greater in knowledge. And the selection is far greater and better managed. It’s astonishing to walk into a store here. Walking into my go-to shop in the City, I planned to purchase a few joints a month or so ago. As I spoke to the sales person, I began craving the possibility of an edible treat. Over the years, I have purchased these many times, but never once has it had an effect like when I was younger. This visit I wanted to try an edible anyway. I knew this would be wasted money, but I had just acquired my first job up north and it seemed worthy of celebration. What better way than enjoying an edible? Again, penis was not quite as exciting as weed. I asked the shop help his recommendation for an herbal treat to eat. Explaining my lack of success with ingestible medical marijuana, I was open to suggestion, but pessimistic. “Are you lactose intolerant?” He asked. “Excuse me”, I thought. “I’m in a weed shop, not a doctor’s office. What does my tolerance for dairy have to do with anything?” He explained this is a regular problem for patients when looking to achieve a great high. Never once had anyone ever optioned this as a reason. Growing up, I never had issues with dairy, but since the age of twenty-four or so, I have had issues with dairy. I have never been diagnosed as lactose intolerant, but I’m aware that I am. Aging into my later twenties, it has come to my attention that most people become intolerant of dairy. Shortly after I wrapped my head around his question, I confirmed my status with dairy. “Well, that’s the problem, Raanan.” My weed shops in Los Angeles never went that deep, but this is part of the draw from SF proprietors. New Amsterdam – as I call my new home – is full of many tidbits about marijuana and this was just one of them. As the sales rep went on, he explained that dairy is the reason I haven’t gotten high from edibles. Suggesting a vegan option, I could only confirm that this was a first world problem. In third world countries, they’re good with the drugs ripped from the ground, but here we have so many options to please the senses. Standing in this weed shop, I was offered a vegan coconut dark chocolate macaroon made with coconut oil, rather than butter. Promised this treat would “blow my mind”, I purchased the macaroon skeptically.

            Before returning home on the BART (public transportation service in SF), I stopped at a Starbucks for a glass of milk to wash down my new treat. I really didn’t think this treat was going to do anything. Despite the salesperson’s certainty that dairy was the issue, I had been promised a great high from so many shops in Los Angeles, leading to a lackluster nothing. Sitting in Starbucks, right outside the train stop location, I drank my large glass of non-fat milk with my vegan treat. The irony was that I purchased a dairy treat to wash down my vegan edible. Defeating the purpose of pleasing my stomach, I swallowed up the concoction rather quickly. I despise the taste of weed, despite loving the smoke of it. Edibles are never pleasant going down, given my innate gag reflex. Relating back to sex, my gag reflex has always been a problem in a relationship outside the micro-penis. Trying to hold back from vomit, I will chew an edible down and swallow in one big sip of a glass of beverage. Washing this gross taste down my throat with milk, I quickly got myself together and boarded the train.

I had been advised to eat only half of this THC treat, but that had been the case with every edible consumed prior to no avail. Swallowing the whole macaroon, I anticipated nothing. Well, fifteen to twenty minutes into my BART ride, I realized the sales rep at my favorite weed shop was far smarter than I. I began to feel the same sensation from so many years prior, feeling an insane full body high. From my experience, the best highs from an edible delectable treat will deliver a series of vignettes, all of a psychedelic nature. I grew giggly on the train and became super paranoid, convinced everyone knew what I was feeling internally. Not only that, but I was insatiably high, barely able to stay seated like a grown adult. I became like a six year old, unsure of my surroundings. The best parallel I can draw is to whatever Paris Hilton feels day in and day out through her own haze of a life. Laughing hysterically from my seat, I could barely look in any one direction for more than a moment or two without seeing a visual play on the eyes. Attempting to focus every few seconds, I became determined to make my train stop home. When I was a few stops from my destination, I rose to my feet and positioned myself by the train doors, in an effort to ensure my exit. Incoherent, I never considered my balance to be a possible concern. Within seconds of standing, I fell to the ground in an aggressive manner, planting my face on the unsanitary ground floor of the train. Rather than cry from the numbing pain, I let out a highly inappropriate level of laughter. Paranoid already, I became convinced everyone was looking at me. I believe this was not actual paranoia, but the fact that I was becoming a cautionary tale for an anti-drug organization. Had anyone caught it on camera, I would be part of a documentary shown to middle school children on the dangers of marijuana.

Somehow by the grace of Oprah (God), I got off at my scheduled stop. Lucky does not begin to explain this event, given my incoherent state of awareness. Walking home from the train stop, I had one of those moments where I thought: “I got this.” “You’re okay, Raanan. You can do this.” Arriving home, I had forgotten my plans for the evening. In addition to eating an edible in celebration of my new occupation status, I had made plans for the night’s meal. Staying in the suburbs outside the city of San Francisco, I don’t have all the same luxuries afforded to the urban environment. What do I have? Shitty chain restaurants. Growing up Kosher in the suburbs, I dreamed daily of the chain restaurants around us. ‘Applebee’s’, ‘Chili’s’, and ‘T.G.I. Friday’s’ were all fantasies as a child. When I finally did eat “gentile-food”, I was brought to Jersey diners and said chain restaurants. My favorite of these low-scale crap-on-a-plate meal houses has always been ‘The Olive Garden’. Once or twice a year, as an adult, I venture out with friends to the Italian-like slop joint. Making sure to wear loose fitting clothing, I leave at least two pant sizes larger in the waist band. Staying outside the city in Concord, California, I have all those shitty restaurants within my sphere. I had made plans to go for a fat-girl fest of binge eating at ‘The Olive Garden’ that evening before choosing to swallow the macaroon of mess.

I plopped myself into the bed the moment I arrived back in Concord. When my host – Unicorn – arrived home from work himself, we had agreed to stuff our faces. After a few minutes lain catatonic on the bed, I arose to experience a brand new vignette of my edible. Getting into said friend’s car – Unicorn as his friends call him – I thought we’d be at the Italian knock-off chain in no time. We had gone to plenty of meals out at ‘Applebee’s’, ‘Chili’s’, and ‘Panda Express’, enjoying our fair share of heart-attacks on a plate in Concord. ‘The Olive Garden’, it seems, was about twenty miles or so away. Sitting in the car, I became horribly paranoid that all other cars on the road knew I was stoned. This was ridiculous as I wasn’t even driving and Unicorn was stone cold sober. I became convinced Unicorn was unprepared for the drive, swerving side to side, when in actuality, he was driving normally. “Can you stay in our lane?!” I pleaded, but I was the crazy one in this scenario. After an extended car ride of giggles and paranoia, we arrived in Antioch, a town I had never heard of. I asked what stop this train was on the BART, being all too familiar with this form of transportation at this point. Unicorn explained that Antioch was way further down the line from SF, without a stop on the BART. For whatever reason of my current state of high, I became hesitant as to the safety of this town. Growing up with an overbearing Jewish mother, when it came to my safety, I quickly become fearful of just about any new area. Beverly Hills presented fears to me, given the new nature of this town when I got there five years ago. Antioch was not Beverly Hills, not by any means, but I wasn’t in a town like Compton. I then asked Unicorn about the safety measures of this town and its crime rate. “Are we in the ghetto?” I asked. “Yeah. This isn’t a very safe area.” In reality, Unicorn was screwing with me, but I didn’t know. Being high and experiencing my surroundings on a whole other platform, any little word could trigger a mess of thoughts. Hearing that this foreign place was “ghetto”, my mind began to race. As the psychedelic nature of my high was blurring my vision, so too it was clouding my mind. I became convinced this would not be a safe meal for us. “Why don’t we just go home, Unicorn? I’m not hungry anymore.” This was a lie, but I became fearful like I was walking into a KKK rally with a giant Jew cap on my head. Or even worse, having dinner with Ann Coulter. What in the world could be worse than that?! My fears were chilling my body.

Unicorn insisted we would be fine. Seeing as he was my ride, I agreed to proceed inside. As anyone that lives in any suburb will tell you, ‘The Olive Garden’ is always busy. For whatever reason, people in the suburbs love an endless assortment of carbs and Antioch was no different. Putting our names in with the host, we were told there would be at least a forty-five minute wait to be sat. Walking outside to smoke a cigarette, I could barely inhale the smoke. I was barely composed enough to stand up straight, let alone manage a cigarette in hand. We’re talking about far too much responsibility for me to handle at this point. Across the street was ‘Red Lobster’, the sister restaurant to ‘the Olive Garden’, owned by Darden Restaurants. While the parking lot where we sat was jam packed, ‘Red Lobster’ was nowhere close to filled. I called the seafood chain restaurant to inquire about the wait. They informed me it would only be five minutes or so and I gleefully hung up, accidentally throwing my iPhone to the cement ground. While I had moments of coherence, I was a mess and overly anxious to stuff my face. As we walked across the street, I became excited for the famous cheddar biscuits from ‘Red Lobster’. They must cook them with crack, because shit is addictive. I live for those biscuits any time my waist line can use an expansion. This night was the perfect time.

Walking into the restaurant, we were met with what appeared to be a gay host. I felt a little more at home, despite believing us to be in the least tolerant/safe place by account of Unicorn’s words and my insane level of high. As we were led to our seats, we passed a number of filled dining rooms, only to find ourselves sat in an almost empty room in a booth by the fire exit. Uncontrollably high, my mind began to race once again. “Why are we being sat all the way out here?!” I didn’t understand the placement, considering the filled rooms we had passed. Never once did it occur to me that those rooms were once empty as well, prior to being filled with people. All I could see was what my tricky mind was telling me. Moments after we were sat, so were an incredibly white trash table of three right behind Unicorn. I sat there, intently listening to their conversation which got heated rather quickly. As my mind raced, unable to decipher their words, I became convinced they were talking about us. Somehow, given the unsafe nature of this place that my unreliably intoxicated mind had built up, I felt like we were in a place that didn’t want us. “Is this a gay-friendly area? Are they like San Francisco here?!” Unicorn quickly responded: “No.” I sat on my side of the booth in horror. “What do you mean? That host who sat us was gay.” Unicorn quickly responded: “No. You’re high, Raanan. He wasn’t gay. They’re not very gay-friendly here. Actually, it’s better if you don’t let anyone know you’re gay. We aren’t accepted here.” I became overcome with a panic sweat. Why were we here then?! None of this made sense to my already erratic brain. All I wanted to do was leave, but also I wanted cheddar biscuits. Unfortunately this high had delivered both an insane level of paranoia and hunger. Neither was subsiding.

I sank into my seat uncomfortably. As the waitress approached, she was tall and pretty with day old lipstick and a displeased look on her face. Most similar to an overworked and disinterested diner waitress, she was not overly pleasant. This was entertaining in a “2 Broke Girls” kind of way, mirroring Kat Denning’s character on the show. Still, I couldn’t get past the table that “hated” us right behind Unicorn. After taking our extensive order, our waitress left us. In that time, my newest vignette began. Somehow, given all Unicorn had said and my racing psychedelic mind, I became convinced that we were offending this establishment just by being there. There was no question in my mind that we were going to be punished. I am no stranger to gay-bashings, but I hadn’t been in a scenario like this in many years and here I was – off my rocker. Trying to decipher the words of our neighboring table, I became convinced they wanted to hurt us. Shortly after this, another table was sat in this empty dining room, just to the right of us. Now there were only three tables sat in this area of the restaurant and they were all in close proximity to us. As my mind was racing, I couldn’t help but think they were the town discipline committee. This new table presented more problems for me as they were backwoods white trash. ‘Duck Dynasty’ had arrived, essentially. The table of three sat a woman and two men with beards past their chests, heavy metal jackets, all the while chewing tobacco and cursing. Now this was prior to the ‘Duck Dynasty’ controversy of recent, but given all of that, you can understand my fear of these new guests. The truth is that this was all in my head, but I didn’t know this at the moment. I thought these backwoods looking bearded diners were the infantry brought in to deliver the pain. All of a sudden, I became convinced that this was far more than a gay-bashing or some harsh looks. We were about to be part of a town’s divine judgment lynching at the hands of prejudice. Every word spoken around us seemed to ring in my ears as hatred. I couldn’t get past Unicorn’s words. We were in a place where gay was not the norm, nor accepted. Our eatery was in a less than safe area and we were offending the townspeople by being present.

Convinced that this would be the second coming of the Matthew Shepherd story, I was transplanted to Laramie, Wyoming within my head. As our food began to arrive at our table, I was overwhelmed with the options. Being stoned, I ordered most everything on the menu. We had a list of appetizers, salads, entrees, and endless biscuits. I was shoveling food into my mouth, sure this would be my last meal. Better make it count, right?! Each component of our indulgent fat-fest meal was delivered by a different member of staff. My mind was racing, keeping within this current vignette of the high for far too long. I became positive that these different hands delivering our food options were all trying to take a peek at the victims of a town’s lashing. They all had to get an eye in on the gays invading their town before we were dragged to slaughter on the wheels of a four-by-four truck. I stayed silent in my seat, partially because far too much food was invading my system, but also out of fear. Oprah forbid I say something our neighboring diners dislike, I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire. I was attempting to prolong as much time as possible to life.

Unicorn began telling me a story about some difficult elderly customers at his retail job earlier that day. Seeing as the ‘Duck Dynasty’ kinfolk sitting close by were edging late in age themselves, I grew beet red at Unicorn’s admission. I began trying to shush him, asking him quietly to “shut the fuck up”. There was no way I wanted to offend any of these ‘Red Lobster’ patrons, fearful it would bring our impending fate sooner. Unicorn didn’t understand my silence, but he was not inside my head – where all the crazy was occurring. I still can’t look back at this evening and see it any other way than my warped mind imagined. Seated in our booth, I began saying my goodbyes to the world internally as I finished my meal. This was surely my final meal, seated at a ‘Red Lobster’ in Antioch, California. I couldn’t help but believe this was sooner than I had ever planned to leave this world, but felt like the choice was not my own.

As our meal came to a close, it became time for the desserts we ordered at the meal’s start. Unicorn asked that we take the brownie sundaes to go, but I knew better. “They’re going to be trashed with our bodies…” As sordid and twisted as this all sounds, it was way worse in my head. I couldn’t help but blame everything on my edible macaroon. Had I been sober or normally stoned by smoking the herb, I could at least have given up a fight or ran into the night. Given my incoherent state, I knew I wouldn’t be capable of a fight, for any reason. When our waitress brought the bill, the brownies were still yet to be delivered. I couldn’t help but think she was prolonging our visit in order to better prepare the infantry. They didn’t want us to leave early. At least that was what I thought at the time. As our waitress dropped the bill, she handed us both surveys to fill out. “Can you go on your smartphones and fill these out before you leave? I need perfect service points for your dining. Rate me the highest options possible before you head out.” Firstly, our service was not great. Whether I would have been stoned or not, Unicorn confirmed that she had about as much interest assisting us as Sarah Palin would have marching in a gay pride parade. That mess of a ‘Fox News’ talking head would prefer to take part in our neighboring ‘Duck Dynasty’ diners’ plans for us. Unicorn began filling out the survey online on his android phone. I quickly grabbed the survey from his hands and motioned he wait. Somehow in my warped interpretation of our evening, this survey was a ploy when the police would come to discover our destroyed bodies. “Well, officers, they had a great experience dining at ‘Red Lobster’. Just take a look at the surveys they filled out about their meal. Tens across the board.” How my brain has a mind of its own… Unicorn didn’t understand my reluctance, but respected my demands. After we paid our bill, we left in a hurry. This was mostly due to my fast nature. I couldn’t help but feel sure a group of white trash hicks were waiting for us with a group of pickup trucks and some uncomfortable rope. Walking to the car, I was sure we were going to be attacked.

It wasn’t until we arrived back in Concord that I was able to come down, finally convinced that we would not be meeting death that evening. Shortly after arriving, I proceeded in the door and passed the fuck out on a bed. The following morning I told Unicorn everything I had experienced, none of which he had been aware of at the time. All the while, I was nursing a hangover like I had finished a handle of whiskey the night before. Despite the fun nature of my ridiculous story, the night was pretty horrific to endure at the time. I didn’t smoke a pipe for at least a week following this evening of insanity in Antioch. Looking back, this is a cautionary tale for me, all about the dangers of medical marijuana and ‘Red Lobster’.

I’m back to smoking weed like the professional pot-head I’ve been for all of these years, but I have kept my distance from edibles and ‘Red Lobster’ – for now.

Xoxo.

R.  

      

RODE TRICK TO SAN FRANCISCO, PART 4.

          If you’ve been reading the first 3 parts of my fateful Road Trip to San Francisco with my friend PG (Producer Gay) and his dirty shit-monster of a Trick, then I can only hope your stomach is rested up. I sure hadn’t prepared myself for such a trip. Two days in and I was ready to jump off a building, but at that point I still believed my friend PG was going to come through on all of his empty promises, so I continued to play nice with Trick – my newly confirmed best friend…

            As I left off in Part 3, our mismatched group had been touring ‘Badlands’, the last stop for most when venturing to SF’s gay Castro neighborhood in hopes of a liquor-based remedy for the day’s troubles. Trick had just professed his love for me, forging a life-long bond over my whiskey and the dance floor. Holding back the vomit in my mouth from his admission, I was unaware that we would be bonded forever – in stories… I threw back the last sip of my whiskey and fled for the door. A well-lit Marlboro Light 100 (because I’m classy that way) was needed to grace my lungs. Headed out the door for a puff, I hoped Trick would continue performing his half-hazard dance moves on the packed dance floor. Shortly after arriving outside, I found myself followed by Trick and his partner for the week, PG. Of course PG always had a place standing next to me, but I had wished for him to take his turn babysitting the mess that stood next to me. Why couldn’t he take him in the back and shit in his mouth? I couldn’t help but think this. Was that too much to ask?

            Trick stood way too close within my personal space and I was attempting to venture outside this pairing. Right to my person stood Trick, while to my left were two fellow gays sharing a conversation. They were carrying on with heavy accents and I decided to prompt myself into their speech. “What accent do I hear? How are you guys tonight?” As these two strangers looked over from their conversation to me, I realized I had spoken too soon. Before me stood two of the most tragic trolls I had set my eyes on since landing on the ground from our road trip of hell to San Francisco. The taller gentleman was balding and covered in sweat, clearly un-showered for days. As I would find out upon moving to SF, this is a common theme amongst many of its inhabitants. In that moment, I used my highest level of Los Angeles pretence to judge the smell emulating from his body. Today I probably have a bit of stench to my own person. (I have to fit in to this town, now don’t I…?) This taller gentleman named Adrienne explained that his accent was South African. I couldn’t help but think of the movie ‘Mean Girls’, where Lindsay Lohan is asked why she is “white” if she just moved from Africa. Making this reference with a giggle, I realized my joke fell on deaf ears. “You’re an ignorant fuck.” That’s what Adrienne had to say to me. All I could think is: “You have no idea…” Then, having forgotten there were two gays standing to the left of me, I heard a squealing noise. “I’m from the UK. Guess where…”

            I had to turn my glance a few inches lower to the ground to capture this creature within my wave of sight. There before me stood a hobbit of sorts. Standing no higher than five foot six – at best – and wearing an obnoxiously ugly cheetah-print t-shirt with jeans from the Baby Gap (I assume) was my new friend, the Keebler Elf. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a rainbow nearby with a pot of gold waiting for this little leprechaun. Unsure of what to say, I just stood there inhaling my cancer stick. “You didn’t guess. Where do you think my accent’s from?!” The Keebler Elf could not contain his question, begging me to respond. Really I was just making conversation to avoid Trick. I hate to sound like the bitch I am, but I really could have cared less.

 

            As I stood there frozen with my cigarette pursed against my lips, PG jumped in for the rescue, reminding me why I loved this man so much.

“I’m sorry to ruin your night, but Raanan ONLY likes big uncut tops. He’s a bottom. Keep it moving.” (You’ve got to love PG for his honest approach.)

“… I could be a top…”  

This was the Keebler Elf’s response from his spot standing below us. Unfortunately – at least in my world – it doesn’t work that way. I like tall, somewhat rugged Latinos, Middle Eastern, and Eastern European men with large uncircumcised members more often than not. We all have our types and the Keebler Elf was not mine.

For whatever reason of the night, this brought about a new group of conversation being had with PG, myself, Trick, and the Keebler Elf. His friend Adrienne still thought I was a racist for making a ‘Mean Girls’ reference. Realistically, as a gay man, I believe it is my responsibility to quote ‘Mean Girls’ verbatim, along with a list of other films including, but not limited to ‘Heathers’, ‘Death Becomes Her’, and every episode of the TV series ‘Golden Girls’. But I digress… As the four of us stood there chatting, PG began having a little fun with the Keebler Elf who kept repeating his interest in playing “top” for the night. I had zero interest, but he was a hella entertainment for our evening. Adding to the fun of my Jameson buzz, I began to fuck with the Keebler Elf – my favourite pastime. “That’s an awfully sharp Cheetah-print shirt you have on there…” I happen to be a sucker for a print and Cheetahs jump to the front of the line, but this shirt was Wal-Mart ugly. Honey Boo Boo would have returned this gift, even if it was filled with Ketchup. This grey, white, and black Cheetah-print was god-awful. As quickly as my half-assed Regina George (See ‘Mean Girls’) compliment fell out of my mouth, the Keebler Elf informed me: “I’m a snow leopard in this new top. I love it too!” Hearing his response, I couldn’t help but think a foot’s worth of snow would leave him unreachable, hidden by the flakes of frozen clumps.

A few more minutes into this conversation, my cigarette had burned to the filter, and I decided it was time to head back into ‘Badlands’. Walking back inside with PG and Trick, the Keebler Elf snow leopard followed like our little lap dog. The four of us danced and drank for another thirty minutes or so, before deciding to head elsewhere. PG really held reigns this trip and he had grown tired of ‘Badlands’. We decided to head over to another bar within the Castro, ‘Q-Bar’. Proceeding down the street, I couldn’t believe our new British friend was still in tow. As we approached ‘Q-Bar’, I began receiving a slew of nasty messages from a friend back East who was displeased with the Facebook postings of my trip. She was under the impression that this trip was intended to be business and occupation prospect-worthy and not a drinking tour. I was under similar impressions prior to the trip, but I knew PG was going to raise hell in the evenings, so there was no lie to my early forecast. As she began to berate me via text message, I grew upset. Drunkenly, I ran to the bathroom to engage in a ridiculous text message exchange where I was called a disappointment and shamed for my trip. Returning from the bathroom after a few minutes, I was overcome with upset and decided to head back to our hotel room, residing from the rest of our evening. PG was standing by the busy bar with a glass of whiskey waiting for me. Standing next to him was the Keebler Elf, while Trick appeared to be nowhere. Immediately I asked where Trick had disappeared to. PG explained that this mess of a third wheel had lost his wallet and was out on the streets of the Castro retracing his steps. I announced my decision to leave and PG pleaded with me to stay. Being drunk and feeling hurt by the nasty text messages I had received from back East, I had already made up my mind. PG, having fun as always, offered the Keebler Elf accompany me back to the hotel. “I’m okay, but thanks…” I replied. “No. Go with him,” PG insisted. My friend was having far too much fun playing with this confirmed Snow Leopard. Seeing as I was in a foreign city with little knowledge of my safety and surroundings at this past midnight hour, I agreed to allow his company. My thought process was that “two gays are safer than one” and should anyone come after us, my longer legs could outrun this British mess. 

I left ‘Q-Bar’ with my pocket-sized new friend. As we walked down Market Street, I took in the scenery. The Keebler Elf would not allow this walk to be pleasant for me. He began asking me, once again, where the origins of his accent might be from. Realistically, while I love accents, I can’t tell one British accent from the next. I’m not overly familiar with the different origins of place when attributing a UK accent. Not to sound ignorant, but they all sound the same to me. I’ve been told I have a “dirty Jersey” accent, but I don’t hear it, so go figure. The Keebler Elf continued: “Well, my accent sounds very ‘POSH’. I’m sure you think so. Everyone does. But, I didn’t grow up in the nicest place…” He continued to go on, stating his ‘posh’ accent as a deterrent in people discovering his place of origin. Overly proud of what he considered ‘posh’, this admission was on repeat for at least thirty minutes of walking. All I wanted to say was “I don’t give a fuck”, but we were walking through a dicey area of Market Street in SF and I needed the company. Continuing to walk down the street, hearing his proudness over an inconsequential ‘posh’ accent, I started to crave the lack of safety from my surroundings over the Keebler Elf’s company. “Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?” I asked my walking buddy. Needless to say, he didn’t pick up on my tone. “I am a gentleman and I want to make sure you get home alright.” Agreeing to let him accompany me to the hotel lobby, I obliged his gentlemanly request. “Well, let’s get a cab then.”

As a cab driver approached, we hailed this rental ride and climbed into the back seat. I gave our hotel information and we were on our way. The Keebler Elf kept curling up to me and I couldn’t accept his bite-sized eagerness to molest me. I asked if he had any interest in grabbing a drunken slice of pizza. Living in Los Angeles for five years, it had been a proven truth that there is no good pizza in the land of Botox. San Francisco, a foodie town, has pizza to rival New York’s best. The Keebler Elf agreed to my request and we asked the cab driver to take us to the best pizza place within walking distance of my hotel. Within moments, we arrived outside a hole-in-the-wall pizza joint. Reaching for my wallet, the Keebler Elf paid the fare before I could touch my coins. “Don’t worry, I got it.” I explained that I had money and then he reiterated his gentleman qualities. Without any intent to lead him on, I wasn’t going to fight a free ride. Approaching this pizza place, it was quite obvious the vagrant nature of this restaurant, if you could call it that. We ordered a slice each and some sodas. Chewing away at this mediocre pizza, I was let down with the promise of good food from our unknowing cab driver. Biting into the cardboard slice of imitation pizza, the Keebler Elf continued to explain how ‘posh’ his accent was. I couldn’t help but fantasize about stabbing him in the face with my plastic fork or smothering him with a paper napkin. He didn’t let up. Seated there for ten minutes or so, all I wanted was for this protector of the rainbow’s gold to shut up.

Then, all of a sudden, a homeless man walked into the pizza joint and proceeded to order a slice. Distracted easily from the Keebler Elf’s repeated ‘posh’ accent conversation, I began to watch the dealings of this homeless man. As he was handed his slice, he proceeded to fork over money to the cashier. His money was not the typical form of coin, but rather monopoly money. Never in my wildest dreams had I ever imagined such a scenario. All of a sudden, hell broke loose in the hole-in-the-wall food shop. The homeless man dialled his level of crazy to an absolute high, assuring this was real money. Seeing as his ten dollar bill was pink, he may not have been a credible source. Within a few minutes of escalating argument, the cashier gave up and offered the slice of pie for free. “Fine. I’ll keep my fucking money.”

Seated near the cashier, I was still enduring the Keebler Elf’s accent topic. He had missed the entire monopoly money exchange. To say this little creature lacked self-awareness would be way too far an understatement. Quickly after that exchange, the homeless man sat next to the Keebler Elf. As he began to chew into his slice of pizza, my endless soundboard of a conversation with the Keebler Elf continued. All of a sudden, the homeless man turned and tapped my company. “Where ya from, governor?” They began chatting in their British accents, something new to me as I hadn’t heard a touch of this dialect during the homeless man’s argument with the cashier. “You have a very ‘POSH’ accent, don’t you?!” As soon as the homeless man uttered these words, it became obvious to me that this was a joke. My new friend had no idea. This went on for a few minutes with the Keebler Elf seated in glee with a giant smile spreading across his face. He wanted anyone approaching to remark on his accent and here he had found just that. Mid-conversation, the homeless man broke out in hysterics, exclaiming “Dude, I’m just fucking with you. I’m from Boston, homey.” With that, the Keebler Elf turned beet red, further proving the possibility that he may in fact have been a leprechaun.

Shortly after this exchange, the two of us left the pizza place (if you could call that cardboard crap pizza) in search of my hotel. Along the walk back, I explained that I was tired and not looking to “hook up”. The Keebler Elf explained, “I’m a gentleman. I respect you.” These are the utter last words of a man trying to find his way into someone’s bed. Drunk and disinterested in a fight, I offered he could come up if he so wished, but that nothing would be happening. Again, he explained that he was a gentleman. Earlier in the night, this Brit had told me he was on vacation and would be leaving SF the following morning, so I figured this would be the last time we would see one another and agreed to this final goodbye. Walking into our hotel room, PG and Trick were already in bed, wondering what took us so long. I told them it was a long story that I would explain in the morning. Within moments of entering the room, the Keebler Elf removed all of his clothes revealing a very small pair of what appeared to be panties. He shed his wares faster than I could blink. PG quickly muttered: “Guess someone’s playing ‘top’ tonight…” No, that was not going to happen. We climbed into my bed in this shared hotel room and I created a quick divide by way of pillow. Throughout the night, every time the Keebler Elf so much as tried to touch me, I pushed him away and moved closer to the edge of the bed.  

The following morning, I was awoken to the musical auto-tune styling of Britney Spears’s ‘Work, Bitch” on blast as PG’s alarm kept sounding off. Hitting the snooze button continuously, PG forced this song into my brain throughout the morning. The entire time, I kept smelling the coarse morning breath of the Keebler Elf resting alongside me. By the final snooze, PG rose to get dressed. As I officially woke from my Britney slumber, I looked to the other side of my bed and saw only the Yorkie-sized mark left in the sheets from the Keebler Elf’s presence. Could it be true?! Was he gone? I motioned silently to PG, asking if my company had left. There was always the chance he had only retired to the bathroom. PG marked the room as clear of my snow leopard and I let out a huge sign. “Praise Oprah” I screamed, unknowingly waking Trick from his slumber. As PG began prepping for his final day of work, I began watching a TV program on my iPad. Within ten minutes or so, PG was gone for the day. Having zero interest in babysitting Trick that afternoon, I asked PG when he would be back from his conference via text message. PG informed me it was a shorter day and that he would be back by one pm. I decided to stay around the hotel all morning rather than venture out with Trick. While I watched my program, Trick retired to the bathroom for a morning shower. Two hour long television shows later, Trick came out from the bathroom in the prior night’s wares, looking no better washed up. I was used to this routine already. Trick declared his overwhelming hunger, offering to buy us room service for breakfast. PG had told me, prior to leaving, that Trick never recovered his wallet or its belongings, so this offer was clearly on my friend’s tab. Room service can be expensive and I wasn’t going to engage with this unless PG was present to order. Trick was relentless with his offers, so I agreed to a coffee and left it like that. Shortly after, I rose to take my own shower. As was the case the day prior, there were no towels left as an assortment of shit-stained white towels were broadcast across our shared bathroom. Calling the maid services for a new assortment of towels, I waited a while before taking my shower. Once the freshly washed cloths arrived, I finally had the chance to shower myself of the night before.

Returning to the room from my shower, I found two things. First, there was a buffet for fifteen spread across the room. Anything from pancakes to eggs to bagels were in front of me. Trick couldn’t decide what to eat, so he ordered several options on PG’s dime. Lovely. “Your coffee’s here, Raanan.” I could see that. There was coffee for me and a melting pot of a family for seven’s meal plan for a week before us. Clearly a meal for me would not have even slightly affected this insane bill that PG would discover upon leaving the following morning. The second finding of mine was the blasted TV. Similar to the loud musical styling on the drive up, Trick had turned the television to a screeching high with a serial killer’s story displayed across the screen. Getting dressed for the day, I couldn’t help but get sucked in to the unsettling story of a high-school aged sociopath that killed his best friend’s entire family in the middle of the night, one evening. This was horribly unsettling to watch at this early hour, but given Trick’s track record with scat-filled prostitution and arson background, this should not have been surprising. All of a sudden, I couldn’t help but think this was his story displayed on the TV. When the sombre and disturbing show came to a close, I pleaded with Trick to turn something less heavy on the TV. “Can we please watch something less upsetting? I haven’t even eaten breakfast yet.” At this point, Trick had consumed every bit of room service throughout our room. He agreed to find lighter programming and then set on a program about a vicious child molester who buried alive a poor child in his sister’s front yard across the street from the young girl’s parents home. This story was horrific, leading me to tears, thinking: “How was this better?!” I kept my thoughts to myself, however, nervous I may be buried outside my own family’s home by the hands of this Trick. A few more depressing programs later, with one hour of ‘Say Yes to the Dress’ (equally upsetting), PG arrived home ready for an afternoon of fun. His work commitments had come to a close and the rest of our time would be spent enjoying the city.

I was dressed and ready for the day, while Trick needed to re-shower. Throughout all of those hours of crime TV, never once did he think it was time to get ready. Given his two-hour stay in the bathroom earlier, I assumed he was dressed for the day, but this trip was questioning my abilities to perceive anything. In the meantime, PG and I had shared a conversation about the events of the night before. When the Keebler Elf and I had left ‘Q-Bar’, Trick was nowhere to be found, searching the streets of the Castro for his wallet. After we left, it seems he came back to ‘Q-Bar’ and began a long dispute with PG, deciding to take his own route back to the hotel. I felt terrible hearing this, because I never would have left my friend alone at a bar. Under the impression that Trick was going to spend the rest of their time together at the bar, I left PG. Now I felt bad for my friend who had brought us both on this trip. Trick was starting to really irritate the shit out of me. He was an ungrateful little shit, as far as I was concerned. To top this off, when PG arrived home (during my pizza outing), Trick was packing his belongings promising to leave for Los Angeles. How he would have gotten there with no wallet or money, I don’t know, but this added stress during PG’s work trip couldn’t have been helpful. I offered we just leave Trick, but PG was enjoying the torture of this chase. To each their own, I guess.

An hour-and-a-half after his shit-staining of our hotel bathroom, Trick was finally ready. We were going to grab a late brunch – just the three of us – and venture around the city. After discussing a few options, we settled back on the Castro, as it is the center of gay tourism in SF. The three of us settled into a cab and off we went. Our cab driver asked us for directions and I assisted, seeing as I knew the way. Between our chauffeur’s lack of knowledge pertaining to his own city and the shitty pizza place suggested by the cab driver the night before, I started to realize taxis in San Francisco seem to know nothing. Arriving in the Castro, we ventured to ‘Harvey’s’, a great place for a Bloody Mary. We were seated quickly, followed by a round of Bloody Marys for PG and I. Trick ordered a vodka concoction with Lemonade, i.e. sugar water and liquor. Following our liquid brunch, we walked the streets for a few minutes before PG decided he wanted his first tattoo. I had been talking about tattoos all week and my interest in obtaining my next one. PG had alluded to the option of buying me one, having never gotten one himself, so the idea of tattoos with my friend was exciting. After I did all the research needed to find a great place, we headed over to a trusted SF tattoo shop. Within moments of arriving, PG proved to be consistent. His promise of a tattoo was never a real possibility. I grew frustrated, feeling like I came along on a trip that was nothing what it first promised, babysitting, chauffeuring, and cleaning up shit. My financial abilities at the moment were limited, so purchasing my own tattoo was out of the question. After helping PG decide on a font for his first tattoo, Trick and I were left to wait for completion. Waiting outside, chain-smoking cigarettes, I became infuriated with this trip. I felt like a non-entity, holding my own pity party for myself. Calling back home to Los Angeles, I was motivated by my best friend to abstain from any further group activity that evening. It went without saying that I would be driving the long journey back the following day, so I wanted to spend my last day on my own. Following PG’s tattoo, he was very exhausted and somewhat anaemic, unable to handle the pain. In need of a nap, the three of us headed back to the hotel. 

While PG napped away the afternoon in our hotel room, I finished a pack of cigarettes outside the building, venting to friends over the phone. I was no longer going to babysit or be involved with this mess of a trip. Obvious to me by this point, there was no substance to the promise of a job back in Los Angeles or assistance with my book. We were supposed to go to a fancy dinner that evening, then a night out raging through the Castro. I wanted to have my own dinner and see a movie. This was going to be a trip about my fun going forward. Amidst my cigarette fuelled rant, Trick found me outside. He began voicing complaint against PG, wanting to just be friends. During the course of this trip, they hadn’t had sex once. Trick was no longer interested and despite my frustrations with PG, I couldn’t help but feel bad for my friend. He had brought this Trick with him in hopes of a week filled with dirty seed-filling sex. Instead, it was constant fighting and games with this mess. Despite my resigning from the night’s activities, I couldn’t help but want to care for my friend.  

Following PG’s nap, Trick decided to shower once again. I couldn’t help but feel bad for the maids in our hotel, watching him enter our bathroom. While he spent an irrational span of time in the bathroom, I brought PG up to date with Trick’s resignation, so as not to make my friend look like a fool. PG asked for private time in the room to address Trick and I obliged, stepping back outside for more puffs from my addiction. PG then began texting me, begging I attend dinner. Due to my having to pay my own way at brunch and my lack of purchased tattoo, I offered my lack of funds as an excuse. PG begged me to attend dinner, promising the night was on his dime. Having no excuses left and feeling bad for his current situation, I agreed. Shortly after that, he asked me to meet him in the hotel bar. It seems that while I was outside, Trick proceeded to have a chat with PG, declaring his hopes for only a friendship. He was nasty and unfriendly, posting a lot of blame on PG for his dirty tongue. Trick kept making claims to PG and I having foul mouths, speaking of sex at all turns. While this is very true when PG and I come together, the boy that shared the foulest of admissions with us within a few hours of meeting did not have much floor to stand on. PG was aggravated and annoyed, so we drank up at the hotel bar, talking trash about this gross Trick.

 

Within another hour’s time, Trick rolled out of the room and into the lobby ready for dinner. PG had made a reservation for the three of us at a high-end seafood restaurant in the Castro, known for their overly attractive male staff. Seated by a wonk-eyed host, followed by our Harvey Fierstein doppelganger of a waiter, this review of said restaurant was merely a myth. Thank god this restaurant was well reviewed on Zagat for its culinary talents, so we set in for a pleasant meal. Hearing the establishment’s specials, PG and I were taken with an heirloom tomato salad consisting of the finest ingredients. This salad was made up of heirloom tomatoes, romaine lettuce, feta cheese, and prosciutto. We opted to share this twenty dollar salad along with a tuna Carpaccio. I ordered a Chicken entrée while PG picked a fish meal. We each asked for a glass of wine along with our waters. Then came Trick’s turn to order. He first asked the waiter for strawberry lemonade. “I’m sorry, we don’t have that here.” Obviously. Trick then reformed his order. “I’ll have a lemonade then.” To which the waited replied, “I’m sorry, we don’t carry that either.” Trick was noticeably upset, but settled on a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice. He then ordered a side of onion rings. I hadn’t even noticed those on this high-end menu, but Trick had. “Can you bring out hot sauce and a side of ranch with that?!” The waiter grew frustrated, considering the fine dining establishment we were in. Apologizing once again, he explained they did not carry Ranch dressing. Then Trick ordered “that salad you talked about with the cheese.” He ordered for his entrée the same salad PG and I had ordered as an appetizer for the table. The meal was strange as Trick was somewhat abstaining from conversation, noticeably annoyed by this restaurant’s lack of lemonade options and ranch dressing. When the entrees came to the table, Trick inhaled his onion rings, while we all ate. Then came time for him to consume his salad. He asked for extra feta cheese on the side, consuming every inch of cheese available to him, abstaining from the rest of his twenty dollar salad. When it came time for the plates to be cleared, trick sandwiched his cleaned plate of onion rings on top of his untouched salad. PG then asked him, “How was your salad?” Trick immediately replied, “Yummy!” In reality, we could have cleared twenty bucks off the bill offering a bowl of cheese instead. We were eating with a picky six year old that would have been happier at ‘McDonald’s’. 

Following dinner, I agreed to oblige PG to a night out seeing his discomfort with our tagalong. We continued our alcohol consumption for the night, jumping from bar to bar. By the time we hit ‘Badlands’ once again, we were all rather tipsy. Shortly after entering this bar, we moved our way over to the dance floor. Enjoying my time with PG, Trick was now the non-entity in the corner. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, my Keebler Elf shown himself. Embracing me with a hug, my drunken response was not well-thought. “I thought you had left town already. Why are you here?” I didn’t utter these words nastily, but more in a level of shock seeing my strange bed partner with the ‘posh’ accent. As the four of us continued to dance, I couldn’t help but try to avoid the Keebler Elf’s glance. Then I noticed Trick whisper something into his ear and without a goodbye, the Keebler Elf stormed away in tears. I asked Trick what he said and he proudly explained: “I told him you didn’t like him and that he was an ugly ass fucking troll. He needed to be told the truth!” I stood there in shock, horrified by his admission. While there was major truth to this, and while I may be a bitch, I would never set out to hurt someone like this. There are many levels of bitchery, but this was plain nasty. I couldn’t handle Trick any longer. Within a moment, I fled outside to try and make things right with the Keebler Elf. I’ve been called ugly many times throughout my life and it’s not a good feeling. No one deserves that.

Finding my way outside, I couldn’t find my little leprechaun anywhere. I did find my pack of cigarettes from within my pocket and proceeded to light one up. As I stood outside puffing away, I came across a generous smile. Before me, standing alone with a cigar in his mouth was a sweet looking “bear” with a t-shirt that read “San Francisco Native”. Without my entourage in tow, I proceeded over to this hairy man, asking if he was actually from San Francisco. He was from the area and thus begun a fun, flirty conversation. It was harmless, but I felt an instant connection to this man that would soon be coined as my friend ‘Teddy Bear’. Chatting for a few minutes, we began poking fun at the drunken shittery that was occurring around us outside this busy nightclub on a Friday night. Amidst our conversation, I noticed the Keebler Elf out of the corner of my eye proceeding to a cab alone. I motioned to say goodbye, but his hurt and anger read deeply across that miniature face. Feeling terrible about my part in the matter, I shared the story with Teddy Bear. He offered I not take this guilt to heart, explaining that these things happen. Then, all of a sudden, a drunken young gay stumbled past the curb in front of Teddy Bear, unzipping his pants and removing his flaccid penis for the world to see. He began a steady stream of urine through the street, barely able to stand. Teddy Bear and I began giggling when the drunken boy’s friend appeared, offering a shoulder for stability, attempting to zip his friend’s pants. I offered a sense of support, chuckling: “Good for you! Spread the love… and the urine!” His friend did not take to this kindly, scolding me and Teddy Bear for my words. Then they were refused re-entry to ‘Badlands’.

 

As I was enjoying Teddy Bear’s company, Trick found his way outside looking to share a cigarette. Teddy Bear and I mostly ignored him, moving on to the topic of marijuana – my weakness. “I have some in my car a few blocks away, if you’re interested.” That I was, but I couldn’t shake Trick who was interested as well, so I deferred the offer. PG arrived outside shortly afterwards, seeking a new place of liquid fun. Teddy Bear directed us to the bar across the street. As the four of us approached the line, I cited a need to buy more cigarettes. Teddy Bear and I then left PG alone with Trick, walking towards a tobacco shop. After purchasing yet another pack of smokes, we made way back to Teddy Bear’s car in hopes of weed. I had been in SF a few days now and gone the entire time without herbal refreshment, so this was a happy surprise for me. We then spent the next few hours baking Teddy Bear’s car into a hotbox of smoke while chatting about everything under the sun. This was my first friend in San Francisco and I felt a lifelong connection in an instant. He was my long-lost Northern California sister. We abandoned the idea of meeting back up with PG and Trick. Around four in the morning, Teddy Bear drove me back to my hotel. We exchanged phone numbers and bid adieu.

The following morning was our final day in San Francisco. Our long car ride back was on the horizon and both PG and I had risen rather early. Instead of getting stuck in the hotel room with Trick another morning, I opted to leave with PG pretty quickly. Packing up our stuff and leaving it with the bell-hop, we were ready for Los Angeles. We had promised Trick a brunch date for the three of us before leaving, but PG was meeting a friend for coffee first and I tagged along for an excuse to be free from Trick. In the cab ride back to the Castro, PG recounted the night after my departure. To my surprise (though it shouldn’t have been), a huge fight took place between PG and Trick at their final bar destination. Yet again, they took separate cabs back to the hotel. I still don’t know how Trick had found money for said cabs, but that was not my business. Upon their individual returns to the hotel, another fight ensued and Trick made a makeshift bed of pillows on the floor, creating a divisive distance in our hotel room from PG. It seems that when I arrived back late into the morning, they had settled on sharing the bed once again. Trick was far more trouble than he was worth as far as I was concerned. PG then went on to tell me that Trick had been complaining restlessly all night about my being a bitch. Well, that was enough for me. I had been as nice as I could be for as long as I could. This mess had received superior treatment from me than he warranted. If that was how he was going to play it, I was done.  

PG and I devised a plan to avoid Trick until our drive back. We would ignore his texts and calls, carrying on brunch without him. Our story would be that my phone had died and PG searched endlessly through the streets for me. There was more to the story, but it’s really inconsequential to the story. We were going to ditch him for the day and I couldn’t be happier. Shortly after grabbing coffee together at Starbucks, I left PG to meet for his prior plans with a friend. I strolled around the Castro, feeling inspired by the creative nature of the city. Within that moment, I decided I was going to move up North. This had been a week long thought in my mind, but now my head was made up. My trip with PG was not what I had expected it to be, but he had delivered me to my new home, along with plenty of writing material and funny stories. I couldn’t fault my friend any longer. Life doesn’t always work out like you expect it to, but it does seem to come to unplanned resolutions. Here I had found the resolution for my next move in life.

 

Walking around the city, I received countless texts and phone calls from Trick. “If he thinks I’m a bitch, I’ll show him how much of one I can be!” With that thought in mind, I steered clear from answering. Two hours went by without a word from PG, however. Finally, I texted him asking where he was. He explained he had been trying to contact me for a while and went ahead to brunch with his friend due to my inaccessibility. I didn’t have one missed text or phone call, finding this strange. Then I asked PG if Trick was with him and he confirmed yes. I set out to meet them at the tail end of brunch. Trick then texted me asking where I was and I finally responded, explaining I was on my way to meet him and PG. When I arrived at the brunch destination, PG was there without Trick, but with his coffee friend. It seemed that he had been texting and calling my recently changed prior number and that he thought I was referring to his friend when I asked if he was with ‘Trick’. The three of us then enjoyed a drink, while I ate some food at another destination within the Castro. After saying goodbye to PG’s friend, we headed back to the hotel. Upon our arrival, Trick was fuming with rage, giving us both the silent treatment like a petulant child. I could care less and took his silence as a gift from above. He stomped his feet throughout the lobby, annoyed by our absence. From the mess that called me a raging bitch less than a few hours prior and was horrific to my friend PG, I really couldn’t be bothered with him.

As we packed into the car, Trick took ownership of the backseat, ignoring PG and I. This couldn’t have gone better for me. Driving back to Los Angeles, I was reminded why PG and I were such good friends. It all started with the musical playlist he began. First we settled on Carrie Underwood’s ‘Jesus Take the Wheel’, a personal favourite. Out of tune and tone deaf, we proceeded to sing along at the top of our breaths. Following this song, we shared an eclectic journey of musical fun ranging from Chaka Khan to Toto to Nine Inch Nails. Our Karaoke session was amazing. Finally I had arrived at the road trip I originally agreed to attend. We laughed about the week and bonded deeper than before. Closing out the weekend, I realized that the mess of our week, with Trick in tow, bonded us closer than ever. We further cemented the love of our familial connection. PG is my brother, bonded for life, and I couldn’t ask for a better friend to take me on such a journey. We had a shit ton of highs and lows this week, but overall, we always came back together. Our collective experiences throughout the week only made for greater stories. The ride kept Trick at a lower volume with only a few moments of his interruption. When he did speak, we iced him out, ignoring most of his attempts. I got us home in four and a half hours, opting to make my home the first destination, allowing PG the opportunity to drop his Trick off in the Valley. Approaching my front door, I found a sense of resolve and exhaustion, happily having enjoyed a road trip to rival any other I had ever been on. If PG was going to help me in life, this trip alone cemented his need to be within my inner circle. Here was a friend that fuels my insatiable palette for crazy and inspires me daily, despite his foul taste in men.

 

This was the last I ever heard from Trick, having blocked his phone number from contacting me upon our return. I will always however remember him fondly as he was the reason for a ‘Rode Trick to San Francisco’. I hope you enjoyed my journey as much as I did.

 

Xoxo.

R.      

RODE TRICK TO SAN FRANCISCO, PART 3.

What seemed like days in my own personal hell with my friend PG (Producer Gay), his Trick (the poop whisperer), and countless hours of Miley Cyrus was in fact only a one day drive. The moment we arrived at the hotel, I was overcome with excitement. Finally I could spread my wings and relax, without the need to be chauffeuring a casualty of porn and a coke-crusted whiter version of Miss Daisy. As we walked into our hotel, I couldn't escape a conversation I shared with Trick on the drive up. He had detailed his intentions of exploring a friendship with PG, rather than a rancid continuation of the sexual combat they had shared the night before. Trick claimed no contest to renting his own hotel room from ours, in order to set a certain boundary. While I wanted for PG to enjoy his trip, I also wanted to enjoy mine. Part of that would include the absence of Trick's foolery. This is what made our arrival that much more strange.

After valeting the car, the three of us walked up the hotel stairs to the reservation desk, which sat on the second story of the establishment. As PG walked up towards the attendant, I sat my ass down in one of the lobby chairs. I expected Trick to get in line as well, following through on his promise of a private room. Instead, I found myself being shoved over in my chair. "Make room for me. I'm really exhausted." Without being able to stop my mouth, I instinctively responded: "Because you've been driving for ten hours straight?! Right?!" I couldn't help myself from labeling Trick as the least self-aware piece of shit I had met in quite a long time. He didn't seem to have any bearing. PG was stationed in front of the reservation specialist for at least ten minutes while I sat squeezed into a chair for one with the bane of this trip. There was some sort of issue with the credit card that had been used for the reservation ahead of time. As the clock had struck well past midnight, I couldn't help myself from starting to set up shop in the lobby, ready for bed. I didn't have enough money in my pocket for the cost of this luxe hotel's rooms, so I didn't have much in the way of options. Trick, on the other hand, had explained his interest in procuring his own room. "Aren't you going to get your own room, buddy? Isn't that what you said?!" I was going to make this happen for my benefit. Rather than reply, Trick just sat there. This became a governing theme of the trip after exiting the confines of our jail cell within PG's car. Often times, I would ask a question of Trick or try to engage him, followed by total silence. It must have been equivalent to asking Hellen Keller how she's taking in the sights or trying to discuss abstinence and sexual health with Flavor Flav. These conversations would go nowhere. After a few moments, I would find myself having moved on. About ten minutes after asking Trick whether or not he'd be reserving his own room, I was met with a confusing "No, I'm okay."

Shut the fucking door? What? Were we even talking? "What's okay?" I asked. "Oh, I'm okay. I'm not going to get my own room." Were we still having a conversation? What was happening. Delayed responses are one thing; this was a whole other animal of creature. Once I realized he was responding to my question from ten minutes prior, I decided to absolve myself from the conversation. This was not a meeting of the minds, but rather a cringe-inducing foresight into the rest of the trip. 

While PG spent his aggravated time arguing with the bank over the phone - after hours - I took in the scenery of this San Francisco travelers destination. There were a slew of transient occupants walking the halls of this hotel lobby, all seemingly of some sort of Asian descent. Once PG grabbed our room keys, I announced this observation to him and was met with a chuckle-inducing ethnic joke of racist proportions: "Didn't you know, Raanan? San Francisco is the birthplace of rice." I giggled as soon as it fell out of my friend's mouth and helped set us all back a step as a racially-biased civilization. I'm a Gay Jew, so I pretend it's okay to joke. 

Before heading towards the elevators for our night's rest, I noticed a lovely little girl. She couldn't have been over the age of twenty one and she was standing amidst the check-in area of the lobby in a tight little black dress, most probably sold as a t-shirt. I was experiencing a full anatomy lesson on ass and vagina. Who knew how informative this trip was going to be?! She had run-down stockings without a shoe near her toes. This barefoot young girl without underwear was clearly soliciting. Whatever she had for sale was clearly not for my purchase, but I was enjoying the sights. I paused our departure from the lobby as I had to observe. While she wandered around, seeking the attention of a man (correction - a heterosexual man), the security in the hotel lobby kept asking her to leave. All of a sudden, the only white male most probably in existence in that hotel, walked over towards her. He couldn't have been a day over sixty-five, so clearly this was going to be a meeting of intellectual equals. As he cradled her backside, our new "friend" was whispering in his overgrown hairy ear words that I couldn't make out from far. Then she yelled out: "One-hundred!" And with that, the old man disappeared for a few minutes. Upon his return, the elder gentleman handed her a stack of cash in the most obvious way possible, shoving it down her mosquito bitten chest. The two of them approached the front desk, asking for a room, while the attendant was giving them a hard time. All the while, I was observing with Trick and PG in tact. Trick turned to me and said "I would have asked for at least two-hundred..." To which, I couldn't help myself but say: "You've only done it once, right?"

And with that, we rose from my single-seater chair and approached the elevator. Trick turned to me and asked where we should venture out for the evening. "Are you fucking kidding me? You know I just drove for the last 10 hours. The only place I'll be venturing to will be dreamland." You'd think there'd be a bit of appreciation as I "took one for the team" driving this long torrential ride all by myself, but alas there was not. "Well, I'm exhausted too. I was in the car also, but we're on vacation." Um... Correction Trick, you took MY vacation hostage. And with that, we got in the elevator and found our room for the week. There were two queen sized beds, equating to my own place to rest my head, while PG and Trick would have their own semen palace on the other side of the room. Within minutes of checking in, I passed out.

The following morning, our first day in SF, I was woken to the sounds of PG showering and preparing for his day. I should have gotten myself ready for the day and fled that room as quickly as possible. Trick was fast asleep, but I was still exhausted. I turned on my iPad and tuned in to some of the TV I had missed from the night before. My plan involved a little programming catch-up followed by a day-long destination at a coffee shop to write. I knew Trick may be in tow, but I had laid out the ground rules the day before, explaining my true intentions for the trip. Writing was my only real intention, with the nights planned around PG's reckless addiction to alcohol and boys. 

An hour into my TV time, Trick woke up. As per usual, he did not clean up nicely; Trick was not well-kept in the morning or the evening. While he struggled to open his cake-crusted eyes, I rose to use the shower. "What are we going to do today?" I was asked. "Well, I'm going to write in a coffee shop or find a nice spot in the park. You're welcome to come along, but I'm not going to be much entertainment or conversation for you." I was hoping he'd refrain from any involvement in my day, but alas I was wrong. "I'm cool with that. It's just going to take me ten minutes or so to get ready." I should have dressed and left with PG, but I opted to rest and catch up on TV, so shame on me. 

Shortly after my shower began, it was over. I'm a fast boy when it comes to getting ready. I can be in and out of the shower within minutes and dressed shortly after that. Within less than ten minutes, I was ready for the day. As Trick got ready to shower, I opted to meet him downstairs outside the lobby where the smokers go. "I'm going to have a cigarette and I'll meet you down there when you're done." I grabbed my bag and proceeded to the elevator. Once outside, I lit my Marlboro Light 100 and began calling friends, sharing the details of our drive up. After a few cigarettes and over thirty minutes, I became rather frustrated with Trick. How long does it really take to shower? Also, if it's going to be at least thirty minutes, afford yourself that time rather than making people wait. There's a certain sense of decorum necessary when on a group trip. Trick had no self-awareness, so I should have assumed otherwise. As the time continued to trickle on, it hit forty five minutes and I couldn't understand what this mess was doing. I texted him: "Where are you, bitch?!" As an aside, I call all of my friends "bitches" and "hos" as a sense of endearment. Trick didn't take it that way. "Why are you being mean to me? It's only been ten minutes. And why'd you call me, bitch?" I apologized and explained that I meant it in the nicest way possible. Then I asked how much longer he would be and even offered he come meet me after he was done. "I'll only be five more minutes. Please wait." So, with that, I continued to wait for this mess to come down the hallway lobby for me. 

An hour and a half after I had arrived outside, Trick came prancing through the lobby doors in the same outfit as the day before. If anything, he looked dirtier than he had prior to his shower. His eyes still carried caked-out dirtiness around the edges of his lids and he smelled like a tar factory. What the fuck had he been doing upstairs?! As we left to go on our walk towards coffee/workspace, Trick was mystified by every store-front, asking to stop in any and everywhere possible. Within a few minutes, I realized I would not be able to write for the day. I was going to be the resident babysitter. The drive up was just a preliminary exercise in training me for this week. Trying to adjust to this new plan, I decided we may as well do some sight seeing. "Do you mind walking around the city and venturing up to the Castro (the gayest area of SF - if that's even possible) with me?" Trick obliged as he had no plausible options outside of day-drinking. We began walking up Market Street in SF, an area I was somewhat familiar with at the time. Every five or six feet, Trick found a distraction. A homeless man with a crowbar approached us asking if we wished to purchase weed. "I got the purple shit everybody wants!" Trick began to inquire and I grabbed his arm. "We're gonna keep walking, mr." As we continued to walk, Trick began to complain about the shoes he was wearing. He had a pair of Doc Marten boots on that had yet to be broken in. "You brought uncomfortable shoes to a city that's based around walking...?" He had no answer, yet he continued to complain. PG was a common topic of conversation as he complained, yet again, about my friend. "He tried having sex with me all night! Ugh." I was firstly grossed out by PG's kept interest in this foul creature, but more so confused by Trick's lack of awareness to the contract he entered into by joining this trip. "Did you ever think you may have given him the wrong idea?" Then, crickets. No response. About ten minutes later, while walking together silently, Trick turned to me and said: "What kind of idea could I have given?" Oh, we're still having that conversation? Um, no. I just ignored him. 

We finally found ourselves at a Starbucks in the Castro and I decided to set up shop at a table they had outside. I had hoped to enjoy a caffeinated treat at an independent coffee shop, but Trick was afraid of anything new. "Starbucks is open everywhere for a reason." I love Starbucks, but this way of thinking was not my own. We ordered drinks and it became obvious that Trick expected me to pay for him, which I did. I began writing at our outside work station, but couldn't focus as Trick kept trying to grab my attention. It was imperative that he show me pictures of all the random guys he was chatting with online for sex, that were currently in the area. "But you came up here with my friend. Why are you looking for anything online?" The response was brilliant: "PG and I are just going to be friends." After about two hours, I grew restless in his presence and decided to venture elsewhere in the area. "I wanna go check out Delores Park. I think it's just a few blocks from here. Up for a walk?" While I expected Trick to jump at the opportunity to continue holding my day captive, I was gleeful with the reaction I received instead. "Actually, my feet hurt so bad right now. Can't we just stay?" I agreed and ventured inside the coffee conglomerate for a refill. 

It couldn't have been more than four or five minutes that it took to walk inside Starbucks and order my coffee and return to our table outside. When I returned, there was a middle aged man seated in my chair. I began to look around, worried for my possessions. My entire book was kept in that pile and now my workstation was no more. As I did a 360 turn around the premises, I found Trick seated on the steps of a row home half a block down the street. As I approached, I realized he had my belongings in hand, so I felt somewhat less panicked. "What happened to our spot? Why'd you move here?" Then Trick proved what a hassle he was to my existence: "Well, that man looked like he wanted a chair, so I offered him our table." I could have understood if it was a handicapped or older man, for sure, but this man couldn't have been more than fifteen years my senior and he was walking fine. Well, actually, he was now sitting pretty at my workstation. 

With my lack of seating potential, I decided it was time to venture towards the park. Because I was merely a visitor to the city at that time, I wasn't 100% sure where Delores Park was. I had an inclination to continue down the street we were on, but I had no guarantees. This was part of the travel journey, so if I went in the wrong direction, no harm. Trick couldn't agree. "Well, my feet are hurting. Why don't you go and I'll stay here? You can text me when you find the park." I agreed excitedly. Finally I would have time free from the confines of his dirty mess. As I walked a few blocks down the street, I was instantly met with Delores Park. I made the decision to ignore texting Trick. This was my time to write and enjoy myself. I made a spot for myself in the park, called a friend or two, and began to set up shop. About an hour and a half later, I received a text from Trick asking me where I was. I chose to abstain from a response. Here I was, a stranger to this city - having only visited twice prior - making due on my own; why couldn't he do the same? When he agreed to the trip, amidst the throws of dirty pig sex with my friend PG, he had no idea who I was or whether we would be enjoying one another's time. For the record, I was not enjoying his time.

Shortly afterwards, I decided to venture to this lovely Tea Lounge around the corner from the park. I had been to this place - Samovar Tea Lounge - on my last visit and remembered enjoying it. Walking in with my backpack and working materials, I sat down at a table and ordered a Blood Orange Tea from my server. This hip little find in the middle of the action, here in SF, is very quaint and sweet. I felt transported to the workplace I had originally planned for myself, agreeing to this trip. Sipping tea and writing away, I was in heaven. I almost forgot about Trick. Then as quickly as I forgot about him, I was reminded of the syphilis infection that hijacked my trip. My phone began to blink with a series of texts. "Where are you?" "Why haven't you texted me?" "What's going on?" "Where is this park?" "Answer me!" The irony of this all is that there was no delay between these text messages. I received each and every message all at once. Erratic, yes; Psychotic, quite possibly; My friend, not quite. I texted him my whereabouts and informed him that this Tea Lounge did not serve coffee. "I don't drink coffee. You know that, Raanan." And with that, I geared up for his arrival.

A few minutes later, Trick walked in to my Tea Lounge with two 32 ounce Sugar Waters (Lemonade) and sat down at my table. While you may be able to bring any and all outside beverages to Starbucks, this Tea Lounge is not quite like that. You are transported to different parts of Asia, gaining the entire tea service ritual while enjoying your time at this lounge. I would have assumed outside beverage was off limits, but that's just me. It seems I was not alone, because within minutes the server approached our table with the same understanding as my own. The exchange was priceless.

"I'm sorry, but you can't bring outside beverages here. Can I pour your 'drink' into one of our mugs?"
"No. I'm okay."
"I'm sorry, but you can't have those here."
"I said I'm okay."
"I apologize. Maybe I'm not saying the right words, but you have to dispose of your 'drinks'."
"Can you leave us alone?!"
(awkward pause, followed by the server grabbing a mug and presenting it)
"Do you mid if I pour that into here?"
"Fine."

Trick then placed the other bottle of sugar water into his bag after I explained the scenario to him. It was like explaining the need for clothing to Matthew McConaughey. The conversation wasn't going much of anywhere. I was horribly embarrassed, noticing the glaring stares from the entire staff. Trick had no self-awareness. As I attempted to continue writing, Trick started up again as the worst possible distraction. After showing me countless faceless torsos he had acquired online through different gay sex applications on his phone, Trick became concerned with the present status of his haphazard hair. "I want to get a haircut. Want to go with me to get one? There's got to be a 'Super Cuts' in this city." I agreed that he needed a haircut, but mostly in an effort to get him out of my range. In truth, a flea bath was more necessary than a trivial haircut, but any excuse to get him gone was good with me. "Why don't you get a haircut while I stay here an write? We can meet afterwards." After a few minutes of attempting to entice my company, Trick agreed to leave. Free, again. Thank you Jesus and Oprah. 

While Trick had now ventured out, I began to write away, yet again. Then PG called me from his conference and we laughed about Trick's ridiculous nature. PG informed me of the night before's bedroom interaction. I had passed right out and hadn't been privy to any of the happenings. As the story went, Trick became extremely irritable with PG throughout the evening, threatening to call the front desk claiming "RAPE!" every time my friend tried to hold him or embrace. "I want to take things slow!" That was the continual cry from Trick's mouth to PG's ears. Again, this was rather strange and extremely odd considering their original meeting, which mind you was the night prior. Despite the stories from our car ride and the mess that was Trick, PG still wanted him. I believe that this sort of chase was brand new to my friend and he couldn't take the rejection. Normally boys throw themselves at PG, hoping for his attention and help with success. I've seen many a boy throw caution to the wind in hopes of PG's undying attention. Then, shortly after an encounter or two, PG loses interest. This was entirely new to my friend as this third wheel was an enigma to PG. The chase began to consume him, yet there was no denying this addition to our trip was a mess.

Shortly after hearing PG's story, he informed me that he would be back from his work conference and at the hotel by 8 pm, anticipating a night out. It was only about four-thirty in the afternoon at this point, so I had plenty of time to continue my work at the Tea Lounge. I agreed to be back home at our hotel and ready for a night out upon PG's return. While I'm not a crazy partier and would have much preferred a night at the movies, I know how PG is and I had agreed to come on his trip. Crazy nights were inevitable and part of our planned itinerary. A few minutes after hanging up the phone, Trick texted me that he had finished his haircut and would retire to the hotel room until going out that night. I let out a sigh of relief and then texted him back, asking how his haircut turned out. "It's okay, I guess..." I didn't really understand this response as I think there's not much gray area with a haircut. You like it or you don't, right? Perhaps I'm crazy. Actually, I know I'm crazy - lunatic status, but still. And with that, I decided to continue writing and take advantage of my free time.

Around 7 pm, I ventured back to the hotel for the night. As I walked into our hotel room, Trick was laying on the bed, seemingly fully dressed in a different change of clothes - a new concept so far on this trip as he had been wearing the same outfit for at least a day and a half already. The haircut was unapparent, but Trick wasn't the most well-kept of individuals, so this didn't come as a shock. I immediately began to get ready, feeling responsible to be ready by the time PG had returned. He had a full day of work and this was more so his trip than anyone else's. I wanted to be respectful, especially because this trip was done on his dime. Entering into the bathroom, I received a quick glance into what had been happening with Trick and his hour and a half long visits to the shower. Within this "green environment" of SF, our hotel had signs everywhere pleading with guests to reuse towels, keeping good with the environment. I had used one towel in the morning and intended to use the same that evening. Walking into the lavatory, I found myself staring at a stack of towels spread throughout every inch of room that was left outside the shower and toilet. Upon further inspection, I found giant brown stains covering each and every towel - most notably a cause of diarrhea. I had never seen anything like this. When one has the accessibility of both a shower and a toilet, not to mention a full vanity, why would it be necessary to wipe shit all over a stack of towels? Amongst said towels were mine and PG's, now covered in rancid stain. It was as if Van Halen were in town and went old school to trash our bathroom. Was Trick tripping on acid? How could anyone do this? Also, assuming this happened to anyone - giving the benefit of the doubt - wouldn't you do everything in your power to hide the evidence? Instead there was a bathroom full of shit linens and towels left for me to clean up? Foul. I would have asked him why he did this or if he needed a physician's visit, but I assumed he'd respond: "I only did it once." 

I cleaned up the towels, adding maid to my resume, right behind chauffeur and babysitter. After calling the front desk and requesting more towels, embarrassed that we used our entire assortment within less than 24 hours, I proceeded to shower and get ready. Within a few minutes, I was dressed and ready. Shortly afterwards, PG arrived home, ready for the evening. After he took his shift in the shower, I assumed we were ready to leave. Then Trick spoke: "I still need to shower and get ready..." I couldn't help but think: "What the fuck have you been doing for the last few hours?! You already raped the bathroom." Everything in my being forced me to keep my mouth somewhat shut. There's no real way to filter my tongue, but at times I can restrain myself - a bit. I was exercising every bit of tact and restraint possible in order to make my friend happy. For whatever fucked up reason, PG was still somewhat intrigued by this Trick, so I wanted to be supportive and kind for my friend. An hour or so later, Trick was ready. I went to use the bathroom to urinate and found a brand new mess of shit-soaked towels. Lovely. 

The three of us set out for an evening of debauchery. I had nowhere to be in the morning and PG had promised business expensed drinks for the evening, so I signed on happily. We got to the Castro, ready for a bar crawl. As we drank sordid cocktail - one after another, I watched Trick go from sweet and affectionate with my friend to pushing him away, claiming they could only be friends. This manic behavioral change was not overly surprising as this was the same person who had admitted to setting a car on fire and pooping in a man's mouth for money just 24 hours prior. 

After we had a few drinks in us, we ended up at 'Badlands', the Castro's big dance party club. Most people end up dancing there towards the end of the night and we were no different. Feeling a fun buzz due to my drink of choice - Jameson on the Rocks - I became entrenched in the dancing fun. While out on the dance floor, Trick professed his love of me as a friend. "I love you Raanan! We're going to be best friends for life." Even lightly drunk, I knew this was a stretch. 

"Sure", I said. Unable to find better words and nervous I may wake up in a pile of shit, it felt right to oblige his will. Don't ever argue with someone capable of setting you on fire during a night's slumber. "Sure" seemed like the best bet. 

I find this blog to stretch longer than expected, so look forward to Part 4 - the closing segment. Sometime next week, after Thanksgiving, you get to read more about Trick, PG, and my run-in with the Keebler Elf...

xoxo.

R