So, I call him back.. He’s now abandoned his original conceit of “12 minutes and I’m gone” and has decided to turn onto the 405 to just come and get me. So, I’m up – get showered and pack a quick bag for “camping” – Rex arrives just as I finish packing. I tell him to grab the rest of the beers out of the fridge and after banging around in the kitchen and getting frustrated with the 1/2 case of beer, he reminds me there are beers in the car and we can buy more in 30 minutes as 6am is steadfastily approaching.
We hop in the car.. off we are down the 10 towards PCH – to Zuma – Pismo – Big Sur – who knows really. It’s dark, cloudy, you know, July in California. We fly through the few Corona’s in the console before we know it. We’re making amazing time. Up through Malibu and on past Pepperdine in no time. Actually, we past the latter at about 115mph (the governor on Rex’s Mustang prevented us from any real speed).
I’m not really sure exactly when it happened, but as we neared San Luis Obispo and it was still really fucking early, I had a revelation… “Let’s go to fuckin’ San Francisco. We’re already half way there.” It was too good of an idea to not go through with it now. So, on to Frisco….

6:47am – We stop at what will apparently be CBS’s next big show, CSI Chevron. Rex has now decided that our personas for the trip will be Superstar DJs who are late for the gig in San Francisco.
8:00am – Further up the coast – 2 Coronas left in the 6 pack – I’ve just managed to spill beer all over myself and the passenger car door trying to hit a sign with my empty (I thought) bottle – missed the sign – Rex is still averaging around 90-95 when, as we round a corner, I spot a CHP on the side of the road. Too late. He’s got us – in Santa Maria, no less – where Michael Jackson just got off. Luckily, I’d been prepping the back seat for just this occasion. I slap the bottle cap back on my Corona and slyly move it to the back seat where I have covered up the sixer with my hoodie – Rex is panicked- he’s sure we’re going to jail. (I know we should) But… I’ve been through this situation before – I do have a website named SorryIGotDrunk.com, don’t I? We scarf some Altoids and of course the cop comes up on my side. (My only failure – I covered up the other side of the six pack better anticipating him walking up on Rex’s side)
He informs Rex he was doing 96 in a 65, (Well, you should’ve seen us a half mile back doing 110 when I threw that beer bottle, I thought). He steps back to his car to run the license. “We’re going to jail,” Rex worries. “No, we’re not,” I reassure him, “If he was going to arrest us, we’d already be out of the car. Five minutes. Alright sir, just sign here, I’m sighting you for speeding. Just sign here and you can be on your way…
Now, let me just say, I didn’t see the damn pen either, but I managed to keep it to myself. Rex looks around the pad he was handed for 5-10 seconds and I could feel his heart rate increase as he failed to see it and you know in his drunken head, all he can see is cuffs, when suddenly, he exclaims, “FOUND IT!” And as if it were on cue, without hesitation, the cop asks us, “So, you guys been drinking?”
Well, now I’ve come around. We’re going to jail, then I remember, it’s 8am , and I shout out, “Well, yeah, last night. But, we’ve been to bed since then. We just got up early to go see a friend in San Francisco. (Now, let’s all remember my shirt is still wet with beer and who knows how much is down the side of the car.)

“Will you please step out of the car, sir”
Yeah, we’re fucked.
At this point, I’m just rehearsing my speech for when I have to show him the beer, when what do you know, Rex comes back and I hear, “Now you guys slow down.” Okay, I guess if Michael can get off, so can we.
We continue on at the speed limit until the next exit where I insist we must stop before my bladder bursts.. we stop at some railroad tracks.. I snap a few pics.. we continue on.
9:51am – We stop at Burger King for some much needed food. After we finish, I’m waiting by the car for Rex when he comes running out… “Get in the car. We need to leave now!” Apparently while throwing away his meal, he managed to toss ketchup all over the booth we had been sitting at. We laugh at that for a few minutes, then Rex passes out and I continue on to San Fran.
12:15pm – We arrive in SF. I exit at the Civic Center because the signs say there is construction and I hate driving stick in traffic. I wake up Rex in the back seat. I start heading for the Golden Gate Bridge – I know he wants a hotel, but, shit, we can sleep by the water, right? He arises, moves into the front seat, and in a zombie-like state says, “Hotel!” Out of the corner of my eye, I see a sign for a Travelodge. “That seems our speed,” he mumbles. I make the sharp turn down an alley to the Travelodge – our savior – the bastion of cheap, yet effective housing for us this afternoon.
I pull up and park, and as we walk up a little blond girl, maybe 17-18 years old, approaches us carrying a full garbage bag (obviously cracked out)(I’ve already mentally checked off two of my first two criteria) and asks us to borrow a cell phone. Rex obliges. She dials… someone answers… “Hey, listen, you gotta come pick me up. I just committed a felony and beat up some girl and the maid went through all my stuff and now it’s all in a garbage bag and I need a ride.”
I look at Rex and say, “Oh yeah, this is where we’re staying.” We get the phone back, give her a smoke, and as we enter the lobby, the man behind the counter asks us to get her.. I do. Apparently, she’d forgotten about her deposit. (Deposit? I think. I wonder how many hours she rented the room for?) I look at Rex, “We should take her to our room, you know, get her side of the story.” He informs me that she would probably fuck like a bunny, and I say, “Yes. And God knows what else is left in that bag.” She heads outside… I refer to her as “Felony” the rest of the trip.. We decide just get the room and try to get some rest.
Rex spots the sign that reads, “NO A.C.” and asks if that’s for all the rooms. The “concierge” responds, “You know, the fuckin’ guy doesn’t pay the fuckin’ repair guy. You can open the fuckin’ door. There’s a fuckin’ fan.” (He speaks incredibly fast, and means no harm in all his “fuckin’s,” it’s just that way he talks.
So, it’s $99 for two double beds and we’re off to our new basement room that smells of piss for the afternoon. I’ve been in some shit holes before – but this is the worst I’ve slept in for sure. Perfect piss level through the steel gate onto the doors below. Oh well, whatever, right? You know the rooms up closer to the sights are going to be twice as expensive if not more. We shove our prides into our pockets, park the car by the door with the room door open and fall asleep. Of course, removing anything tempting from the car and placing it on the other side of the far bed but off the mysteriously wet carpet by the bathroom. Yeah, I wasn’t kidding when I said this place was nice.
5:00pm – I wake up.. Rex is still out of it. I decide to go out and see where the fuck we are. As I round the corner, who do I see, but Felony! She’s STILL sitting there in front of the lobby with her garbage bag of belongings from FIVE hours earlier! We give each other a nod like you give your neighber and I look around at the dirty Chinese restaurant, liquor stores, and shit, there was probably a gun shop – long story short – yes, we were in the hood.
I go back and wake up Rex and we head towards the wharf for food. Now this is merely 10 or so blocks away which in LA would take you from The Hood to North Central Hood, but here we’re instantly transferred into the land of tourists, parks, and BABY GAPs.
We eat at Pompei’s Grotto, which is ironically the home of what I like to call “The Last Supper”. A place where years earlier I had dinner with my future ex-girlfriend in one last ditch effort to salvage a remnant of the nostalgic memory that was once our relationship. Needless to say, when the milk’s gone bad, even a weekend in SF can’t save it. Moving on, Rex didn’t have a drink because he was still recovering. I had a Bloody Mary, (This is not a game, folks).
As we’re leaving the spot, I spot some sick clouds rolling in on the Golden Gate Bridge, so we speed over, quick hike down to the water, couple pics.. and we head back to the Travelodge. As we head down Lombard Street, we pass what looks like a cool neighborhood – lots of bars, cool looking peeps – and we both imagine out loud, “Wish our hotel was up here instead of some Oakland ripoff.”
But we nonetheless drive back to the ghetto and upon entering the room I commence to stuff up the toilet.. I go to the front desk and ask for a plunger.. “No, we don’t have one of those.” Seriously? I go back and tell Rex. Dumbfounded, he goes and asks… 2 minutes later, he comes back.. “We’re leaving.” We check out. “Would you like room 116,” he asks. “This place is a shithole,” Rex retorts, “We’re going somewhere else.” The clueless “concierge” then says that we’ve been charged nothing. We get out of there before they realize what has been done and head back up to that cool area we’d seen earlier.
While looking for a hotel, I spot a limo driver, Rex yells out the window, “Where’s a good area to go bar hopping?” He says Fillmore, then starts to drive away, then suddenly slams on his breaks, stopping traffic and screams out, “No. Chestnut’s where all the Marina chicks hang out.”
So, we find a hotel on Fillmore and Chestnut, you know, hedge our bets. The Surf Motel – $80. Cheaper then the shit hole, of course. It’s too late now to find some clothes for the evening since we wasted the day away in Skid Row. Remember, we came prepared for nothing – God knows not a night trying to score in SF). We walk to Walgreen’s. I buy a $2 Alcatraz shirt for the evening.
We hit Monaghan’s because we hear a loud group of girls from down the street.. we get there and they’re taken.. we have a couple beers (Guiness for me), play a little Golden Tee to kill the time while the booze does its job.. I remember a girl I knew a few years back who had moved to SF and unbelievably, I had her number in my cell. I call her and she says she’ll call me back when she gets out. Outstanding. Now we’ve got some potential. Can’t beat girls that already know you.
12:20am – We leave that bar and head down to another place whose name escapes me, do some shots of Jager, and order some beers. I head off to the bathroom and when I return, Rex says, “That girl over there took your beer.” Okay. So, I confront her and she mumbles some shit about ordering a Fat Tire and thinking my Guiness was it… Blah blah blah.. buy me another beer, woman! And just as we’re drinking our beers and giving up on my friend, she text messages me… “we at element”. Well, then, so is we.
Down the beer, into a cab, and on to Element Bar. We get there and it’s packed. It’s 126 degrees inside. The DJ sucks. But just as we’re about to say, fuck it, we spot the ladies. My girl, Missy and her five hot friends. Rex and I are instantly licking our chops as we approach. We step to them, and wouldn’t you know it, none of them can dance. And not in the cute way. In the “Wish I had a video camera so I could post this on the internet” kinda way. But they insist on dancing. Now, Rex & I can distinguish between our 2s & 4s and 1s & 3s but are looked upon like WE’RE retarded because we CAN DANCE! This frustration goes on for 5 or 6 songs.. I order a Gin (Of course. Dire circumstances). But of course I only get two drinks out of it, before one of these girls throws it away. Really. I don’t care who you are. Who throws away a drink?
So, there I am without my $10 drink, trying to communicate with Clompy The Coordinated. Seriously, what’s the move here? Am I supposed to dance badly too? I mean, shit, a fat girl has potential.. she can lose weight. Rhythm is instinctual, either you got it or you don’t. Darwin would understand. So, two hours of this BS and the DJ who was trying to be Grandmaster iTunes – scratching with his Powerbook – and Rex takes off at 1:45 to prep for the post-party back at the hotel. I get harshly rebuffed and slapped with the Friend card. I mean, I realize we weren’t that close in LA, but that’s what these trips are good for, for burning bridges of people you don’t really need to see again anyhow.
Oh well, now we’ve got a case of Corona and a bottle of Glen Fiddich Scotch. We grab the first cab we can and tell him to take us to the hotel and wait. We drop off the booze, come back and ask the cabbie, “Take us the place where you pick up girls late at night whose eyes are dilated, maybe they talk too much, hugging, etc.” And the All Star cabbie responds, “Oh, I know where to take you guys.”
2:30am – So, he drops us off and we walk up to this dude, TJ, to find out the sitch. We make up some DJ names and say we’re here on vacation from LA. He immediately looks at me and says, “Oh yeah, I know you. You spin the sickest house.” Sure, I do. Classic.
We go into this place for a minute.. it’s some hip hop club… again with the terrible dancers and still mediocre DJing. We fuck around in there for a half hour. And just because there were so many wallflowers watching her dance alone, I go and dance with the hottest girl in there, Miyaki, for one song. We have a laugh and hit the road.
3:30am – Back to the hotel to grab our shit and hit the road back to LA. Rex convinces me that since we came here drunk, we should leave here drunk rather then sleeping and waking up hungover in San Francisco with a 6 or 7 hour drive ahead of us.
4:35am – We stop to get gas and decide to buy some Swarm. Now, this is an over the gas station counter bullshit trucker speed alternative. Basically, it completely fucks up your whole day. I’ve bought many things from many dealers – NOTHING – has ever made me feel this terrible. At least back when it used to contain Ephedra, there was 30 minutes of good! Within 30 minutes, we are complete messes. All the goodness of the booze is gone and has now been replaced with confusion, pain, headache, nausea, and any number of other fucked up things you can think of.
We try to pull over in the desert to see if we can sleep it off. HA! Rex has such a hard time that he has to get out of the car and lay on the ground on a towel. I’m curled up in a ball of sweat in the Mustang as the sun once again steadfastily rises. After god knows how long of this insanity that I admittedly lost it.
“What the fuck are we doing out here in the middle of the desert!?! Get in the car. Let’s find a hotel! I’ll pay for it! We have to leave now.”
7:22am – Motel 6, Coalinga, CA – We stumble into the lobby. I’m so fucked up at this point, I can’t even raise my head to talk to the ladies.
“Give us two double beds,” I struggle to get out, “Anything.”
“Sorry, we’re sold out,” one lady says.
“What about the room that says ‘Do Not Rent’,” the other asks her.
“YES, we’ll take that one,” I scream, “I don’t care who was killed in it. We need to sleep NOW!”
Room #259 – No lock on the door.. no sheets on the beds.. the ceiling was hanging down.. there’s a Shop Vac in the corner. Oddly enough, even in this condition, still light years better than our first hotel.
We lay our heads on the polyester mattresses, thankful for the pillows without pillowcases and of course, right then, those fuckin’ Swarms decide to kick it into second gear. We both start having synchronized heart attacks.
3:30pm – Somehow, we managed to sleep. We got up and drove home through Dante’s Inferno and made it back to LA at 6:15 with enough time for Rex to make it to his softball game – God knows how that went … only 37 hours from where we began.

At this point, we’re winding down.. We get the girls at the bar to sing Happy Birthday to Laz, only using his middle name, which he LOVES, (that’s sarcasm), but hey, if you can’t shit on your friends on their birthday, when can you? Laz had had about 6 double Jack and Cokes and was fading fast, so we all decide to take off.
So, Laz decides to put the entire tab on his expense account. Remember, he’s a hot shot film exec and can get hookers and blow with just a click and a scroll on his Blackberry. A Hollywood legend in the making.. And I plan to write the tell all book when it’s all over.
Lou’s final tab at Rainbow: $0.00
On the way back to the car, a street merchant gives Beauxman, my roommate, and I some flyers to The Body Shop. We jokingly say we should just go there. It was only 10:30 or so and we were just about drunk enough to make it a good time. So, in the fatal words of Tom Cruise, (before he went psychotic on us), from Risky Business, “Sometimes you just have to say, What the Fuck.”

We get to The Body Shop, use our free passes, pay $10 for the Two “Drink” Minimun. There’s no alcohol because it’s fully nude. BUT, as we soon find out, they do have an open door, in and out policy. So, we take a quick tour of the place which at this time of the evening on a Monday is pretty empty. Basically just a bunch of girl who are just getting to work. So, off to the closest bar…
That turns out to be The Trocadero. Never been there. Nice little joint. Quickly ordered up a Tanqueray Rocks… Beauxman, a Jack Daniels Rocks. Things were about to get serious after all. We drink those down and call Rex at work and try and convince him to just leave work and come down to the club. He says he can’t and then thanks me for completely ruining his night. MFer needs to get a day job, yo. Just sayin’.
So, we continue to ogle at the lovely ladies roaming around, mainly this hot little number in a red and black bustier who looks as if she may have had one too many E pills. Just my type of girl. At one point, I see her looking at me, trying to say something to me from across the room, so being the sexual predator I am, I pounce on the couch right next to her. Her name is Ester. She’s obviously out of it, but a nice girl. I ask if the guy who was sitting next to her earlier was her boyfriend. Alas, it twas not. Conversation continues… Then the big surprise comes. She gets up to leave and says,
“I work over at The Body Shop. You should come by and see me sometime. My name there is Monique.”
“Well, actually I’m headed over there right after I finish my drink,” I retort, trying to remember her name which in the matter of two seconds has already flown through my head and dropped firmly to the bar floor.
So, back to the bar.. Slam the TanqRox and order up us two shots of Beam for the road. Down those bastards like we’ve just been poisoned and they’re the antidote and we’re off.
Lou’s final tab at Trocadero: $25.00
On to The Body Shot… Things get blurry once you step into a place like this. I remember a Honduras girl who I had no interest in and when I came back from the bathroom I saw her dragging Beauxman into the back room. Different strokes, I guess… There was a girl named Jenny who offered to “Break the rules and do things I’ll never forget,” (still kicking myself for not taking her up on that offer), and then there was Jasmine. Well, let’s just say that Jasmine can now pay for a large portion of her rent money this month for the hour or so we spent together “talking.”

After being followed to the ATM, again, to pay the nice lady her wage, I’m offered a smoke from one of the bouncers and I quickly accept and go hit the curb to smoke. The outside curb at a strip club is the equivalent of the keno room in Vegas.. It’s where you go when you know you’re just about done losing all your money and getting nothing in return. Beauxman comes out and joins me, and we actual consider going back in, taking out more money and going for one more round. Nudity is a powerful drug, man. But we realize it’s now 1am on a Monday and maybe it’s not a good idea to go blow the rest of our rent on strippers. At least not tonight.
Lou’s Final tab at The Body Shop: $252.00
All in all, I gotta say it was an above average Monday night. Beats sitting home watching 24 any day. Actually, cutting your toenails beats watching 24, but that’s a whole different article.
Happy Birthday Laz. Sorry you couldn’t make it.. Let’s just say we did it in your honor. We were thinking of you the whole time. Well, not the whole time. Sometimes there were naked ladies in front of us, but the rest of time, totally you.
Mahalo,
Lou

So, I call him back.. He’s now abandoned his original conceit of “12 minutes and I’m gone” and has decided to turn onto the 405 to just come and get me. So, I’m up – get showered and pack a quick bag for “camping” – Rex arrives just as I finish packing. I tell him to grab the rest of the beers out of the fridge and after banging around in the kitchen and getting frustrated with the 1/2 case of beer, he reminds me there are beers in the car and we can buy more in 30 minutes as 6am is steadfastily approaching.
We hop in the car.. off we are down the 10 towards PCH – to Zuma – Pismo – Big Sur – who knows really. It’s dark, cloudy, you know, July in California. We fly through the few Corona’s in the console before we know it. We’re making amazing time. Up through Malibu and on past Pepperdine in no time. Actually, we past the latter at about 115mph (the governor on Rex’s Mustang prevented us from any real speed).
I’m not really sure exactly when it happened, but as we neared San Luis Obispo and it was still really fucking early, I had a revelation… “Let’s go to fuckin’ San Francisco. We’re already half way there.” It was too good of an idea to not go through with it now. So, on to Frisco….

6:47am – We stop at what will apparently be CBS’s next big show, CSI Chevron. Rex has now decided that our personas for the trip will be Superstar DJs who are late for the gig in San Francisco.
8:00am – Further up the coast – 2 Coronas left in the 6 pack – I’ve just managed to spill beer all over myself and the passenger car door trying to hit a sign with my empty (I thought) bottle – missed the sign – Rex is still averaging around 90-95 when, as we round a corner, I spot a CHP on the side of the road. Too late. He’s got us – in Santa Maria, no less – where Michael Jackson just got off. Luckily, I’d been prepping the back seat for just this occasion. I slap the bottle cap back on my Corona and slyly move it to the back seat where I have covered up the sixer with my hoodie – Rex is panicked- he’s sure we’re going to jail. (I know we should) But… I’ve been through this situation before – I do have a website named SorryIGotDrunk.com, don’t I? We scarf some Altoids and of course the cop comes up on my side. (My only failure – I covered up the other side of the six pack better anticipating him walking up on Rex’s side)
He informs Rex he was doing 96 in a 65, (Well, you should’ve seen us a half mile back doing 110 when I threw that beer bottle, I thought). He steps back to his car to run the license. “We’re going to jail,” Rex worries. “No, we’re not,” I reassure him, “If he was going to arrest us, we’d already be out of the car. Five minutes. Alright sir, just sign here, I’m sighting you for speeding. Just sign here and you can be on your way…
Now, let me just say, I didn’t see the damn pen either, but I managed to keep it to myself. Rex looks around the pad he was handed for 5-10 seconds and I could feel his heart rate increase as he failed to see it and you know in his drunken head, all he can see is cuffs, when suddenly, he exclaims, “FOUND IT!” And as if it were on cue, without hesitation, the cop asks us, “So, you guys been drinking?”
Well, now I’ve come around. We’re going to jail, then I remember, it’s 8am , and I shout out, “Well, yeah, last night. But, we’ve been to bed since then. We just got up early to go see a friend in San Francisco. (Now, let’s all remember my shirt is still wet with beer and who knows how much is down the side of the car.)

“Will you please step out of the car, sir”
Yeah, we’re fucked.
At this point, I’m just rehearsing my speech for when I have to show him the beer, when what do you know, Rex comes back and I hear, “Now you guys slow down.” Okay, I guess if Michael can get off, so can we.
We continue on at the speed limit until the next exit where I insist we must stop before my bladder bursts.. we stop at some railroad tracks.. I snap a few pics.. we continue on.
9:51am – We stop at Burger King for some much needed food. After we finish, I’m waiting by the car for Rex when he comes running out… “Get in the car. We need to leave now!” Apparently while throwing away his meal, he managed to toss ketchup all over the booth we had been sitting at. We laugh at that for a few minutes, then Rex passes out and I continue on to San Fran.
12:15pm – We arrive in SF. I exit at the Civic Center because the signs say there is construction and I hate driving stick in traffic. I wake up Rex in the back seat. I start heading for the Golden Gate Bridge – I know he wants a hotel, but, shit, we can sleep by the water, right? He arises, moves into the front seat, and in a zombie-like state says, “Hotel!” Out of the corner of my eye, I see a sign for a Travelodge. “That seems our speed,” he mumbles. I make the sharp turn down an alley to the Travelodge – our savior – the bastion of cheap, yet effective housing for us this afternoon.
I pull up and park, and as we walk up a little blond girl, maybe 17-18 years old, approaches us carrying a full garbage bag (obviously cracked out)(I’ve already mentally checked off two of my first two criteria) and asks us to borrow a cell phone. Rex obliges. She dials… someone answers… “Hey, listen, you gotta come pick me up. I just committed a felony and beat up some girl and the maid went through all my stuff and now it’s all in a garbage bag and I need a ride.”
I look at Rex and say, “Oh yeah, this is where we’re staying.” We get the phone back, give her a smoke, and as we enter the lobby, the man behind the counter asks us to get her.. I do. Apparently, she’d forgotten about her deposit. (Deposit? I think. I wonder how many hours she rented the room for?) I look at Rex, “We should take her to our room, you know, get her side of the story.” He informs me that she would probably fuck like a bunny, and I say, “Yes. And God knows what else is left in that bag.” She heads outside… I refer to her as “Felony” the rest of the trip.. We decide just get the room and try to get some rest.
Rex spots the sign that reads, “NO A.C.” and asks if that’s for all the rooms. The “concierge” responds, “You know, the fuckin’ guy doesn’t pay the fuckin’ repair guy. You can open the fuckin’ door. There’s a fuckin’ fan.” (He speaks incredibly fast, and means no harm in all his “fuckin’s,” it’s just that way he talks.
So, it’s $99 for two double beds and we’re off to our new basement room that smells of piss for the afternoon. I’ve been in some shit holes before – but this is the worst I’ve slept in for sure. Perfect piss level through the steel gate onto the doors below. Oh well, whatever, right? You know the rooms up closer to the sights are going to be twice as expensive if not more. We shove our prides into our pockets, park the car by the door with the room door open and fall asleep. Of course, removing anything tempting from the car and placing it on the other side of the far bed but off the mysteriously wet carpet by the bathroom. Yeah, I wasn’t kidding when I said this place was nice.
5:00pm – I wake up.. Rex is still out of it. I decide to go out and see where the fuck we are. As I round the corner, who do I see, but Felony! She’s STILL sitting there in front of the lobby with her garbage bag of belongings from FIVE hours earlier! We give each other a nod like you give your neighber and I look around at the dirty Chinese restaurant, liquor stores, and shit, there was probably a gun shop – long story short – yes, we were in the hood.
I go back and wake up Rex and we head towards the wharf for food. Now this is merely 10 or so blocks away which in LA would take you from The Hood to North Central Hood, but here we’re instantly transferred into the land of tourists, parks, and BABY GAPs.
We eat at Pompei’s Grotto, which is ironically the home of what I like to call “The Last Supper”. A place where years earlier I had dinner with my future ex-girlfriend in one last ditch effort to salvage a remnant of the nostalgic memory that was once our relationship. Needless to say, when the milk’s gone bad, even a weekend in SF can’t save it. Moving on, Rex didn’t have a drink because he was still recovering. I had a Bloody Mary, (This is not a game, folks).
As we’re leaving the spot, I spot some sick clouds rolling in on the Golden Gate Bridge, so we speed over, quick hike down to the water, couple pics.. and we head back to the Travelodge. As we head down Lombard Street, we pass what looks like a cool neighborhood – lots of bars, cool looking peeps – and we both imagine out loud, “Wish our hotel was up here instead of some Oakland ripoff.”
But we nonetheless drive back to the ghetto and upon entering the room I commence to stuff up the toilet.. I go to the front desk and ask for a plunger.. “No, we don’t have one of those.” Seriously? I go back and tell Rex. Dumbfounded, he goes and asks… 2 minutes later, he comes back.. “We’re leaving.” We check out. “Would you like room 116,” he asks. “This place is a shithole,” Rex retorts, “We’re going somewhere else.” The clueless “concierge” then says that we’ve been charged nothing. We get out of there before they realize what has been done and head back up to that cool area we’d seen earlier.
While looking for a hotel, I spot a limo driver, Rex yells out the window, “Where’s a good area to go bar hopping?” He says Fillmore, then starts to drive away, then suddenly slams on his breaks, stopping traffic and screams out, “No. Chestnut’s where all the Marina chicks hang out.”
So, we find a hotel on Fillmore and Chestnut, you know, hedge our bets. The Surf Motel – $80. Cheaper then the shit hole, of course. It’s too late now to find some clothes for the evening since we wasted the day away in Skid Row. Remember, we came prepared for nothing – God knows not a night trying to score in SF). We walk to Walgreen’s. I buy a $2 Alcatraz shirt for the evening.
We hit Monaghan’s because we hear a loud group of girls from down the street.. we get there and they’re taken.. we have a couple beers (Guiness for me), play a little Golden Tee to kill the time while the booze does its job.. I remember a girl I knew a few years back who had moved to SF and unbelievably, I had her number in my cell. I call her and she says she’ll call me back when she gets out. Outstanding. Now we’ve got some potential. Can’t beat girls that already know you.
12:20am – We leave that bar and head down to another place whose name escapes me, do some shots of Jager, and order some beers. I head off to the bathroom and when I return, Rex says, “That girl over there took your beer.” Okay. So, I confront her and she mumbles some shit about ordering a Fat Tire and thinking my Guiness was it… Blah blah blah.. buy me another beer, woman! And just as we’re drinking our beers and giving up on my friend, she text messages me… “we at element”. Well, then, so is we.
Down the beer, into a cab, and on to Element Bar. We get there and it’s packed. It’s 126 degrees inside. The DJ sucks. But just as we’re about to say, fuck it, we spot the ladies. My girl, Missy and her five hot friends. Rex and I are instantly licking our chops as we approach. We step to them, and wouldn’t you know it, none of them can dance. And not in the cute way. In the “Wish I had a video camera so I could post this on the internet” kinda way. But they insist on dancing. Now, Rex & I can distinguish between our 2s & 4s and 1s & 3s but are looked upon like WE’RE retarded because we CAN DANCE! This frustration goes on for 5 or 6 songs.. I order a Gin (Of course. Dire circumstances). But of course I only get two drinks out of it, before one of these girls throws it away. Really. I don’t care who you are. Who throws away a drink?
So, there I am without my $10 drink, trying to communicate with Clompy The Coordinated. Seriously, what’s the move here? Am I supposed to dance badly too? I mean, shit, a fat girl has potential.. she can lose weight. Rhythm is instinctual, either you got it or you don’t. Darwin would understand. So, two hours of this BS and the DJ who was trying to be Grandmaster iTunes – scratching with his Powerbook – and Rex takes off at 1:45 to prep for the post-party back at the hotel. I get harshly rebuffed and slapped with the Friend card. I mean, I realize we weren’t that close in LA, but that’s what these trips are good for, for burning bridges of people you don’t really need to see again anyhow.
Oh well, now we’ve got a case of Corona and a bottle of Glen Fiddich Scotch. We grab the first cab we can and tell him to take us to the hotel and wait. We drop off the booze, come back and ask the cabbie, “Take us the place where you pick up girls late at night whose eyes are dilated, maybe they talk too much, hugging, etc.” And the All Star cabbie responds, “Oh, I know where to take you guys.”
2:30am – So, he drops us off and we walk up to this dude, TJ, to find out the sitch. We make up some DJ names and say we’re here on vacation from LA. He immediately looks at me and says, “Oh yeah, I know you. You spin the sickest house.” Sure, I do. Classic.
We go into this place for a minute.. it’s some hip hop club… again with the terrible dancers and still mediocre DJing. We fuck around in there for a half hour. And just because there were so many wallflowers watching her dance alone, I go and dance with the hottest girl in there, Miyaki, for one song. We have a laugh and hit the road.
3:30am – Back to the hotel to grab our shit and hit the road back to LA. Rex convinces me that since we came here drunk, we should leave here drunk rather then sleeping and waking up hungover in San Francisco with a 6 or 7 hour drive ahead of us.
4:35am – We stop to get gas and decide to buy some Swarm. Now, this is an over the gas station counter bullshit trucker speed alternative. Basically, it completely fucks up your whole day. I’ve bought many things from many dealers – NOTHING – has ever made me feel this terrible. At least back when it used to contain Ephedra, there was 30 minutes of good! Within 30 minutes, we are complete messes. All the goodness of the booze is gone and has now been replaced with confusion, pain, headache, nausea, and any number of other fucked up things you can think of.
We try to pull over in the desert to see if we can sleep it off. HA! Rex has such a hard time that he has to get out of the car and lay on the ground on a towel. I’m curled up in a ball of sweat in the Mustang as the sun once again steadfastily rises. After god knows how long of this insanity that I admittedly lost it.
“What the fuck are we doing out here in the middle of the desert!?! Get in the car. Let’s find a hotel! I’ll pay for it! We have to leave now.”
7:22am – Motel 6, Coalinga, CA – We stumble into the lobby. I’m so fucked up at this point, I can’t even raise my head to talk to the ladies.
“Give us two double beds,” I struggle to get out, “Anything.”
“Sorry, we’re sold out,” one lady says.
“What about the room that says ‘Do Not Rent’,” the other asks her.
“YES, we’ll take that one,” I scream, “I don’t care who was killed in it. We need to sleep NOW!”
Room #259 – No lock on the door.. no sheets on the beds.. the ceiling was hanging down.. there’s a Shop Vac in the corner. Oddly enough, even in this condition, still light years better than our first hotel.
We lay our heads on the polyester mattresses, thankful for the pillows without pillowcases and of course, right then, those fuckin’ Swarms decide to kick it into second gear. We both start having synchronized heart attacks.
3:30pm – Somehow, we managed to sleep. We got up and drove home through Dante’s Inferno and made it back to LA at 6:15 with enough time for Rex to make it to his softball game – God knows how that went … only 37 hours from where we began.

We awoke in the car at sunrise, in some parking lot in San Diego. We walked across the border early – 8 or 9am. Right on the other side there were immediately multiple places to acquire breakfast. So we did – but something was a bit different here with my huevos rancheros, (a dish that at the time I had no idea what it meant), I was offered a Dos Equis. This, my friends, was wonderful. See, as I mentioned earlier, Joey and I were underage – in the U.S. – and we had only been able to commandeer one fake ID for the trip. This meant that we mostly had to take turns going into bars when we wanted to. This sounds so silly now, but we did it. In New Orleans, in San Diego, wherever necessary. One person inside, the other on the sidewalk waiting. Once, I managed to sneak past an old security guard at a strip club in New Orleans, but again, that’s another story. Huevos Rancheros and Dos Equis – One of the grandest breakfasts of my young life.
I’ll never forget this day for the rest of my life. I can’t tell you what I had for lunch yesterday, but I remember every last detail of this day. After breakfast, we ventured towards Revolucion Avenue – this is where my “Tijuana Handbook” told us to go. On the way I stopped and purchased a wonderful t-shirt. And I used my newly acquired bartering skills on the unsuspecting merchant. He said $15 – I said $8 – He said $12 – I walked away. He says, OK $10 – Done. A $2 shirt for $10 that reads “Wine Me Dine Me 69 Me.” I’ll wear it on my wedding day.
Continuing on, we got our names on pieces of rice – a necklace that I would, years later, lose in the Nevada desert somewhere. As soon as we reached the main square before Revolucion, (it must’ve been 10 or so by now), we were accosted by a guy telling us about 2 for 1 drinks – right up these stairs. The sun barely accepting the day ahead of it, and we’re going for 2 for 1′s in an empty bar on the second floor in this strange little Mexican town. Joey had two Tom Collins – two margaritas for me – and in the fine tradition of TJ, of course these came with a shot of tequila.
Two rounds in that joint and we move on – our young constitutions well on the way to oblivion – we decide that this would be a good time to buy some weed to smoke out of the fine TJ bowl Joey had just purchased. What can I say? I was once a passenger on that train as well. We try the technique learned just last summer at Soldier Field, Chicago – Grateful Dead Concert – walking, making eye contact with likely “holders” and kinda sorta loudly whispering, “weed.” Brilliant.
Eventually, somehow, this “works”. The dude stops. We tell him we’re looking to score some weed. He says, “No problem. My dude’s got it. Right there,” and he points to a 3rd story window across the street, “give me the 40 bucks, and I’ll bring it right back to you.” Now even in our drunken conditions, we knew that was a bad idea. “We’re not giving you our money and letting you just walk away.”
“Oh, no,” he says, “you guys hold this acid until I get back.” He holds out his hand – a sheet of 20 squares, each with a little reddish/purplish dot on them, wrapped in a cigarette pack cellophane. Now, Joseph and I, although having been to the final Grateful Dead show, having read On The Road, Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, Flashbacks, etc., had never actually seen acid. And this looked like what we had read about. And we wanted to trust this guy. He’s only going right there, right? Okay. Deal. Never underestimate the power of naivete.
The guy runs off and out of sight. And we wait. And wait. An hour goes by and here we are, still slightly buzzed in the noonday Mexican sun, sitting on a curb, anxiously awaiting the return of “the weed guy,” holding this “collateral.” We decide that he’s not coming back. So what to do with all this acid? “We should take it.” I don’t remember which one of us suggested it, although the other would’ve soon enough anyhow. 20 hits. I guess 10 each, right? Well, let’s just say thank God those weren’t real or otherwise I’m pretty sure that we would’ve never made it out of there. EVER. I mean, really imagine two dumb-fuck teenagers, drunk, tripping off TEN hits of acid on Revolucion in the middle of the afternoon. There may not even be words for what would have become of us.
So, we move on. More bars. More bars. This part does become a bit blurry – the whole late morning/early afternoon part. I remember being in the basement of some joint. One of those places where they sneak up on you, pull your head back, pour tequila down your throat, shake your head, and then ask you for $3. Who came up with this brilliant idea? Well, I got a little sick. Had to go rest my head on the nice Mexican Bar Toilet for a bit. This part although not blessed with details, is rich in specific memories. While holding firmly to the toilet, the only thing keeping me from tumbling across the universe, I remember looking up and seeing this guy yelling at me over the stall door.
“You can’t do that in here!” he kept yelling in a thick Mexican accent. His English was not as strong as his sentiment. He finally managed to get the door open to try and throw me out, and as he opens it, who do I see but Joey, right there trying to help me from this bastard. “Can’t you see we’ve got a sick man, here?”
Somehow we get out of there, but there’s no time for sobering up. Shit, I’ve already gotten rid of all the bad stuff. Where can we go to get all this madness out of our system? Hmmm. Where is the place to forget about all the worries of the real world?
“Hey, is that a strip club over there,” I say, “let’s go there.”
Walking across the street we have the obligatory TJ Strip Club conversation. No matter what the “stripper” says, we don’t leave each other’s sight. We walk in, (it’s about 2 or 2:30pm for those keeping track), ID at the door. Yes, we’re over 18. Ha. Through two doorways of thick heavy black curtains – to keep the daylight out and the “who knows” in.
Now, what goes on inside a Tijuana strip club stays inside a Tijuana Strip Club. Vegas ain’t got shit on TJ. So, the secret details of the club unfortunately must remain just that, secret. But I will tell you this, later on, as Joey and I were running for our lives down Revolucion, dodging pedestrians and traffic, being chased by a stripper and a bouncer, I couldn’t help but think of how proud our parents would be if they could see us now.
After eluding the maelstrom behind us, we realize we need money. I’m broke.. Strip Club. Sorry. But there are at least two of several problems we possess that are stopping us from getting more money. Can’t see straight. Can’t speak Spanish. And again, here’s where the details become blurry, (no girls, food, drink, or drugs to spark the memory). Somehow we managed to get two locals to help us with the ATM. I gave him my card to my father’s account and the PIN and Joey and I followed him to an ATM which spit out I don’t remember how many pesos and then he took us to an exchange where he got $270 and some change. These guys wouldn’t even take $5. Not even a drink. They just said you’re welcome and walked away. Amazing. I thought for sure I was going to get fucked on that transaction, but a month later, when I got the statement, because of differing exchange rates, my $270 only withdrew $267 from the account. I actually made a couple dollars on the deal. They could’ve taken it all.
Well, somehow, later that night, we end up right back in the same club where I had been sick earlier. Probably because we recognized it – that quickly becoming a theme to our evening. So, there we are, dancing and drinking at this club – drunk either still from the morning or for the fifth time that day – depends on how you look at it, and who do we see, but “the guy”. Yes, the guy that took our $40 and went to buy us the pot.
Remember him? Well, we did, too. Only we both managed to forget the fact that he stole our money just a few hours earlier. We both see him and run over and hug him, (We Know You!). He’s completely cordial until it hits him. Oh shit! And he disappears into the crowd. Out of there. Of course, Joe and I don’t put all this together until hours later – hours after me handing the Too Sick torch over to Joey – in the same bar as me.
As we headed towards America late that night, I remember this… We bought a pack of Mexican Marlboros which tasted like ass, we stopped at a Hardee’s or a Carls’ Jr., (I don’t remember what they were called then), and I, right back in the square by where our story began, attempted to ride a mechanical bull. Obviously, I was promptly thrown off.
We somehow made it back to the border and for two minutes, no exaggeration, both searched for our IDs while the conversation with the border patrol went something like this.
“What country are you from?”
“Hold on, I’ll find it.”
“What country are you from?”
“It’s gotta be here somewhere.”
“What country are you from!?!”
“Wait, maybe it’s in my other pocket.”
“What country are you from?”
Then, Joey suddenly realized what we were being asked and shouts, matter-of-factly, right into the guards face, “America!” And we walk through.
We walked back to the car, passed out, and continued on in the morning. On to more stories that will someday be told. L.A., San Francisco, Seattle, Salt Lake, Chicago, Burbank, Albuquerque… This is only one of dozens of the ridiculous adventures of Joey and Lou.
Happy Cinco De Mayo!
As always, Mahalo… Lou