A LOW-KEY NEW YEAR'S EVE IN SAN FRANCISCO...

I’ve celebrated many a New Year’s Eve over my time as an adult, but it’s never held a high level of importance to me. Growing up an Orthodox Jew, the only times for celebration – in whatever restricted form – centered around religious holidays. For whatever reason, New Year’s was never a big deal in my home. Perhaps this was specific to my home and not the religion, but I’ve never held a connection to any “secular days”. As an adult, I have attempted to embrace many of these days, including Christmas. Still, I could take a day or leave it. New Year’s Eve is about as exciting to me as a Kardashian sister getting a bikini wax. It’s awfully messy and takes a few days to recuperate. That’s not to say it’s not worth the hype, but if I want to have a fun evening of mess, I can do that any night of the week. Drunken vagrants in the street isn’t all that appealing to me, but then again, I don’t watch ‘Keeping up with the Kardashians’.

This past New Year’s Eve met me with my new home, San Francisco. While it could have been fun to blow out the night in an aggressive haze of alcohol, I’d far prefer a night cuddled up to my puppy in front of the TV with some Haagen Dazs. If there may or may not be some medicinal herb involved, that wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. Who am I kidding?! That’s never not a possibility. And this New Year’s was going to follow a low-key plan with lots of marijuana, television, and my dog Scooby.  

This New Year’s Eve, I was scheduled to work my retail job until seven. I made plans to go out after for a drink or so with my friend Teddy Bear. My night would deliver me home before midnight. Working in the Castro, it’s very convenient to go out for just a casual drink and head back home by way of the public transport wizard that is SF’s BART train. As I prepared for my early evening, I was instructed on the chaos that is New Year’s Eve in San Francisco. Co-workers informed me that there was no way I would make a train before Midnight, considering the drunken scene of public transporters during this fateful evening of debauchery. “Get ready to sleep on the train tracks” I was told. This made my time schedule a more rigid minute-by-minute in my head. I can often be a rather neurotic Jewish mother type, so my interest in staying around for the shit-show was none too high. Leaving work that night, I met my friend Teddy Bear for a drink around the corner from my job in the gay mecca known as the Castro. He was finishing up a beer with a friend who was about to head out for alternative plans. Noticing the time, Teddy Bear and I headed over to our favorite medical dispensary for some herbal goodness. I’ve spoken of this before, but the ability to smoke marijuana in public here in SF, makes my jolly heart boom.

Purchasing a few joints each for the evening, we set out to return to the bar where I had met Teddy a few minutes prior. We proceeded to order drinks upon arrival, before heading towards the back of the bar, where the smoker’s lounge was kept. Surprising for the night, this bar was rather empty. It was barely eight at this point, but still you would have expected a higher turnout. This wasn’t the most coveted of establishments, but I had still expected a shit show. Instead, the mess only came from myself and Teddy. When we get together, the two of us get rather sassy and have a gay old time. Acting like mean girls in the corner, Teddy and I were bringing “the show” as he calls it. Smoking cigarettes, slinging a drink or two, and smoking some weed, the two of us were making this empty bar our playground. I’m always surprised when the two of us go out, because rarely do people approach us, but Teddy is convinced we scare people off. This is most probably accurate, considering our track record and the insatiable fun contained between us two. Perhaps it’s intimidating, but it is what it is and we always have a blast when we spend time. Standing in a bar, sharing a joint, I’m often reminded of my love for San Francisco and this time was no different.

As our drinks were running low, Teddy opted to head back into the bar for refills. Standing by our high-top table alone, a stranger approached, asking for a cigarette. I obliged, noticing the Adonis like nature of this man in question. His name was Eduardo and he stood about six foot two in height. The thing with me is that while I have many parameters for what I find attractive, height can easily change my tune. When I see an overly tall man, I just want to climb them like a tree. Eduardo had height on him and a very Parisian look. Until he spoke, I was sure this man was French. Within moments of opening his voice, he revealed himself as Mexican. Latinos are always welcome by me, so I began to flirt as we shared a smoke. English was not his first language – not by a long shot – but Eduardo was highly intellectual with a creative mind and we began to connect on many things. We had shared a similar vagabond tale upon our arrivals to Northern California and I found myself crushing. After a few minutes of chatting, bridging the language gap with tangible lust, Teddy arrived back at the table. Proving what an amazing friend he is to me, Teddy played our time together as the best possible wingman. He was the Khloe Kardashian of our pairing, but arguably she’s the best part of that sex tape empire. Eduardo informed us that he had a midnight yoga class to attend for the New Year’s, “starting 2014 out right”. Before leaving to attend his midnight mass for a gay man, Teddy made sure we exchanged phone numbers and information to my blog. Not only was Teddy my wingman, but here he was playing the role of agent as well. Wishing Eduardo a great evening, Teddy pulled out a joint and we began getting stoned once again, while drinking away our early evening.

All of a sudden, a group of straight girls tore through the bar to this back patio to congregate. “I’m not wearing pants, girls!” This was the first hello as this group of six exchanged kisses, clearly meeting for a night of adventure within the realm of the gays. Earlier in the day, a girl had informed me that every year she does a “theme night”, trying out a different niche of the city. One year she did the Mission. Another year she went out with her girlfriends to Haight Street to dance among the hippies. Last year, she and her friends attended the Castro. “It was a lot of fun. Definitely not something for every weekend, but it was fun to see that side of the city.” I, on the other hand, see the Castro as an easy drink among my people. But then again, I don’t do “theme nights”. (Catch that shade) So, here Teddy and I were at a very empty bar with a group of six straight girls that said hello with a plethora of air kisses and the proclamation that “I’m not wearing pants, girls!” As all the girls giggled, another friend shouted out “I’m not wearing pants, motherfucker.” All the girls giggled and marveled at the two members of their group choosing to attend the evening sans pants. The irony of it all as I looked over were that they had opted for leggings with long blouses. This was not ignoring pant rules in the Castro. Up until recently, it was perfectly legit to walk around the gay area naked. Now the legality has changed, forcing some coverage. The resident “nakeds” of the Castro found their loophole, however. Daily, I see a man who walks around with nothing on his body more than a gold sequined penis sock. All he has covering his manhood is a very descriptive and visual piece of cloth constructed around the shaft. This is a “fuck you” to lawmakers and I love it. I’ve always wondered how local businesses handle it though, and I recently had the chance to find out. While seated outside of the Starbucks in the Castro, I saw this bare bottomed gentleman walk past me in his sequined banana hammock. As he approached the door to this coffee establishment, I watched him lift his arm to expose a hidden fanny pack. I had no fucking idea that was coming. Staring in shock and excitement, I couldn’t help but think: “How crafty. I need to get myself one of those.” He then pulled out a small shred of lavender and magenta cloth, quickly wrapping it around his nether region like a sarong. This cover-up of fabric was just enough to clothe his penis sock and part of his back crack. With that, he entered the Starbucks, grabbed his venti iced coffee and came back outside for the big reveal. That gold sequined banana cloth was exposed once again along with his bare bottom. Since then, I’ve encountered this man a number of times and watched his sarong being dressed and undressed. These straight girls in the Castro on New Year’s needed to understand what the true definition of “no pants” suggests. Should I be in a bar in the Castro and hear a proclamation of no pants, I expect to look over and see a bare bottom. Leggings will never count; sorry.

Continuing to drink and smoke with Teddy, I began keeping my ear open to this collection of straight girls as they shuffled towards a picnic table in the back. I may or may not have started a twitter collection of tweets with their delicious sound bites. As they sat around making comments about the “exciting” nature of the Castro, I couldn’t help but think “you’ve chosen the wrong bar…” At least go to one of the busy bars for the evening, not this empty smoker’s lounge with Teddy and my commentary to keep you entertained. This must have been a theme night, however, and these girls were in for their taste of the Castro, however that was going to be delivered to them. When it came time for drinks at the table, I overheard one girl’s request: “Karen, can you get me a beer?” “Do you have a preference?” The response was priceless. You can’t make this shit up. “In a cup. Not the bottle.” I enjoy beer myself, on occasion, drinking it that evening to accompany the weed and cigarettes. That being said, I enjoy a white or Belgian beer, generally on draft. Never would I respond to a beer preference with the vague response of “in a cup”, but then again I would never claim to be pant-less unless I was in fact naked from the waist down.

As this table continued to drink their “beers in cups”, the conversation died down for a bit, closing at a whisper. Teddy and I continued to our girl-talk, ignoring this table of messes until it became time for refills. “What would you like now, Karen?” They had all been drinking draft beer and it was another girl’s time to make her round to the bar. “Another beer. I’m just a tad bit fucked up.” This was her response, followed by the other four girls confirming their “tad bit” of drunkenness, all opting for more beers. I could appreciate their level of incoherence from one drink, citing the easy ability to date-rape anyone of these girls. Luckily I’m gay and there would be a slew of homos encountering them all evening, so their easy ability to get wasted off one draft beer each wasn’t going to get them into trouble this evening. Teddy and I began to finish the joint we were sharing, while I threw back the last few sips of my beer. I was stoned and in dire need of munchie food. We opted to leave, in need of sustenance for our stomachs. Just before our departure, as we grabbed our bags, I heard the final outburst of my evening from the gaggle of straight girls: “There needs to be girth involved, Karen!” All of the girls nodded in agreement. Women after my own heart. I realized these ladies would do quite well for themselves this evening. Clearly I had misjudged them by their poor attempts at bare legs. Any woman that knows the importance of girth when talking about a man’s member has a rightful place at the table, in my humble opinion. I felt like Teddy and I were passing the torch to these women upon our departure. And with that, we left on our way.

Headed down Castro Street in the gay mecca, Teddy and I were planning on pizza for our insatiable palettes. I was ready to stuff my belly in an aggressive manner. Just then, we passed a Mexican restaurant I hadn’t tried yet. My eyes began to swell with excitement. Seeing my new need for tacos, Teddy obliged my request. We walked into this busy taqueria, excited for treats. Overwhelmed by the menu in my stoned haze, I eventually decided on Azteca Beef Nachos. Placing my order with the gentleman behind the counter, he began asking me my preferences regarding beans and toppings. Within moments, I realized he was preparing an Azteca Chicken Burrito for me. I’m not a big fan of all that dough, but I was stoned and resisting the mood to waste a prepared meal for an argument over my order. As I proceeded to the register to pay for my oversized wrong order, Teddy Bear turned on the Latin charm. Teddy has Latino blood in him, but rarely turns it on. I always assumed he was Caucasian as he mostly looks it. Only recently did I discover him to be a mixture of German and Mexican blood, or as he puts it: “Half beaner, half Hitler youth white”. To those who find this offensive, well, this blog may not be the place for you. Judging by the fact that you’ve found yourself this far in, shock value is probably lost on your devilish sense of humor. And I support this. So, Teddy turned on his rare Latino sense of charm and began speaking in Spanish asking for the menu options not listed. “There’s a secret menu that the gringos don’t know about” he informed me, before proceeding in Spanish. As it worked out, the taqueria was fresh out of all the options he requested. In the end, Teddy ordered a plate of nachos which did not magically turn into a burrito like my meal. Despite my desire for nachos, my stoned haze accepted the doughy plate of goodness that was a burrito in front of me. Within a few moments, I devoured my entire plate, citing a new love of burritos. Realistically, I was so stoned that any plate of grub would have been licked corner to corner. I then shuffled chips and salsa into my mouth while I waited for Teddy to finish his plate. He wasn’t quite as excited to devour his plate in under a minute as I was. Finishing up, we left the Mexican restaurant for the night. Teddy was planning to attend a New Year’s party, while I was planning to head home for a night in bed with my pup.

Exchanging goodbyes for the evening, I set out for the BART train. Walking to my train stop, I began to fully sober up, with my belly full of burrito goodness. Proceeding down Sixteenth Street from the Castro, I encountered a number of drunken vagrants raking in 2014 with open containers and the smell of marijuana. As I’ve said before, the open ability to smoke weed in the streets here warms my heart. I soaked in the excitement on the street, admiring my new city, but still intent on proceeding back to the East Bay for an evening of Television and Scooby. Walking down the stairs to the underground train stop, I didn’t encounter an insanely high level of riders waiting for this transport like I had been warned. I thought, “Phew. I’m leaving just at the right time”. Then came the train and my calm grew unsettled. My approaching train was filled from end to end with drunken patrons of the BART. Squeezing on board, I found a claustrophobic spot amongst a group of fellow standing train-goers. Within seconds, I was punched in the stomach – playfully, of course. There was an overly drunken and potentially high couple seated on the handicapped preferred bench by the entrance doors. Flavor Flav’s doppelganger held residence as the male from this couple, with his New Year’s plastic party blower positioned in his mouth, squealing in excitement. This mess was resting in his seat, raising to the ground unstably every few moments to try interacting with fellow train riders. His way of communicating was through friendly punches that were catching all recipients off-guard, myself included.

After receiving a punch to the gut, I politely pushed through other passengers to find a spot further from the mess. I didn’t want to venture too far as I knew I would be watching a show, but I didn’t want to get hit again. This Flavor Flav look-alike stood far higher than the former rapper and VH-1 D-lister. Standing at least six foot seven, this man had pants falling to the floor with his dirty boxers exposed for the train to see. His eyes were circling the back of his head, suggesting some sort of hallucinogen in addition to the alcohol he held in a paper bag. The little woman that stayed by his side was equally intoxicated, standing no higher than five foot herself, with a roly-poly stocky body frame. She kept screaming “that’s my man!” as passengers were attempting not to lock eye contact with this couple. I felt like I was an audience member during a reunion episode of the VH1 classic ‘Flavor of Love’, where Flavor Flav had a bunch of dirty girls fight for his attention, all the while getting in countless girl fights with one another. As the moments passed and the punches kept being thrown at various onlookers, my train began to empty. Despite the busy time of night on New Year’s Eve, people were leaving for deeper claustrophobic conditions on neighboring train cars in opposition of stomach punches. The train emptied rather quickly, leaving a dozen or so people along with me still seated. I had found a seat as the car began to empty. Noticing the empty state of their train car, but unaware of the reasons, Flavor Flav and his woman began dry humping and stumbling around the perimeter. “That’s my man! That’s my man!” These words could be heard throughout the cabin in between dry humping sessions and stumbles to the ground. A well composed group of girls sat scattered on a few benches nearby and I could hear their rising disdain for this behavior. “He better not fucking come near me. I have mace.” Just then, Flav started stumbling around the train car yet again, falling onto the lap of the girl who had uttered these words. She threw his ass on the floor, telling him she’d beat the shit out of him. “Hands off my man!” This was heard from Flav’s roly-poly munchkin wife. She rose from her seat and grabbed her man, bringing him back to their handicapped sanctioned bench by the train doors.

Then, without any forewarning, these two incapacitated vagrants began embarking on a new adventure of the evening. While he lay back, practically catatonic on the bench, she climbed on top of him and began dry humping his rather aggressively. My eyes were planted on the two of them. All of a sudden, I watched her hands reach into his boxers and pull out a rather large appendage which she slid inside her unzipped jeans. Drunken and messy, their coitus began with myself and the rest of the train car playing the role of an audience. I had heard rumors about sex on the BART during late hours, but never had I expected to see this. My low-key New Year’s Eve wasn’t turning out as calm as I had planned. Following a few minutes of lazy sex, the couple ended their encounter. I don’t know if either reached climax, but she got off of him and everything was put away. The two continued heckling fellow passengers until two police officers entered our cabin. Still so incoherent and fucked up, Flav and his woman couldn’t cooperate with law enforcement. By the time we hit our next stop in Oakland, the two were escorted off the train by the officers in our cabin. Collectively, our entire train car let out a sigh of relief.

Once I approached my stop deep into the East Bay, I left my train and lit a cigarette, walking home. It wasn’t even midnight yet and my New Year’s had been quite exciting already. Walking home, I made a stop at ‘7-Eleven’ for cigarettes and a bit more munchie food. Once my Marlboros were in hand with a few donuts and some crappy chips, I continued back to the house. Walking in the door, I received a text message from Eduardo, the boy from earlier in my night. He was very cute in person and awfully flirtatious in text messages. We exchanged a few other words before I set into my bed with my pup and a joint. I watched a couple episodes of ‘Friends’ before hitting the hay. The following morning, I woke up without a hangover, having resisted an exuberant level of alcohol for the evening. Eduardo was still texting me and we were planning a night’s date for the following week. All of a sudden, I received a message from my new beau: “I really like you a lot Raanan, but I have to be honest. I have a boyfriend, so we have to be friends.” He then followed that message with a picture of his dick. I swallowed a bit of throw up in mouth, grossed out by his interest in being “friends”. Opting to start 2014 out right, I decided to leave the night before in the past, including Eduardo. My low-key night was as low-key as it was going to get. After all, crazy tends to follow me.  

Xoxo.

R.