Swallow My Pride

A priest walks into a gay bar with a dyke, a fag and a straight chick. No, this isn't the beginning of some joke, but rather the start of my Friday night out in San Francisco. Seriously. Any trip I can come back from saying the aforementioned is a great one, which I plan to get a lot of mileage out of in the coming days. The significance of this date is that exactly 39 years ago in New York City (on Friday, June 27, 1969) the Stonewall Riots ignited the LGBT liberation movement.

Our Pride adventure in The City (what many Californians have nicknamed San Francico) actually started on Thursday, which wasn't necessarily off to a good start. The City of Seattle towed my car. Apparently the utility work on my block started a day early. I heeded the signage correctly, but the city fucked up. So I missed my carpool, but still made my flight in more than plenty of time as it was delayed due to poor visibility as Northern California was a blaze with wild fires.

Caught up with Hicks, a friend of a friend, inside SeaTac's sleek newer Concourse A. Ironically, I found him in the African Lounge, ironic because he's black.

Upon arrival, I turned on my phone only to be receiving a call from the plane pulling in right behind mine. It was my dear friend Rach, who I've known since my college "daze." We were meeting up in The City and both staying with my BFF Grace on Russian Hill.

No sooner had we put our things down in Grace's flat, we were whisked off to North Beach via cab to get a drink or several. We started at a very swanky bar, a place I had been to once before but can't recall the name. While there, a very muscular, athletic gentleman about our age approached. He's an acquaintence of Grace's who was very interested in having people notice his well developed bod as he drew attention to it by casually flexing from time to time. He was pretty sexy right up until those moments. Next.

Don't know what it is about the corner of Grant and Green in North Beach, but two out of two times I've been on that exact same corner adjacent to this quaint Irish pub, months apart, I've gotten completely stoned.

The time before this last it was Grace and my dear friend (and former co-worker) Macho Pacho (that's Grace's nickname for her). Pacho and her band performed at the pub last October. I had just stopped through The City for the night on my way to my other home away from home in coastal Mexico.

This time we were walking by these three big dudes and the smell of ganga in the air was extremely pungent. As we passed, I commented how good something smelled. We then invited ourselves to partake. They were more than happy to share. I suppose this stands to good reason.

Man, they had the fattest spliff I've ever seen. I swear it was nearly an inch in diameter. OK, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but it was pretty fucking huge! And one toke got me pretty fucking stupid-baked. It's sometimes very fun to regress ...

From what I recall we ate some wood fired pizza at what first appeared to be a very charming Neapolitan pizza restaurant right on Columbus that was clearly open for late night dining. The waiters must have been faux Argentinians because they thought they were Mexicans who thought they were British and acted like snooty French men. We sat out on the sidewalk and even if you offered me $1 million, I wouldn't be able to recall what we talked about. I do recall a lot of laughs, but that's par for the course with these gals.

Grace had to run into the office early Friday morning. I don't know how she did it. Rach and I accompanied her to Peet's on Polk Street for some fresh morning brew. Lord knows we all needed it. So Rach and I went on walk about, strolling down Embarcadero on the water's edge until we hit Market Street. Along the way Rach made contact with our good friend Alice, who I had just seen about a month prior during my last visit with Grace in The City. We agreed to meet her and her girlfriend for lunch at Chow in the Castro.

We hopped a streetcar on Market Street, which would could have easily beat to our destination by just strolling at a casual pace. It was one tourist experience I hadn't ever indulged during my dozens of visits to The City over the years. Now I know why. Impractical when you have limited time, places to be and people to see.

Chow was delicious as was our waiter. Afterward, Rach and I returned to Russian Hill in time to meet Grace's friend, Priest Ralph de Bricassart.

The four of us started at a rooftop bar in the Mission, which offered skyline views and was fantastic except for the cold wind whipping up from the bay. Our next stop was surely for Rach, the Lexington, a dyke bar on the edge of the Castro. Some of her gal pals from San Diego were there. They came up as a band to play a few sets for the Dyke March the following night.

Our next stop was Moby Dick's, which was surely for yours truly. The men were out in full force for Friday night of Pride weekend in The City. Funny enough, I recognized quite a few men from Seattle, but we of course kept to ourselves and didn't bother saying hi to one another. It's the gay Seattle way, the prude misunderstanding that if you say hi to another gay man it means you want to fuck. Whatever happened to being able to just be genuinely friendly? Oh well ...

Apparently during our time at Moby Dick's, Priest Ralph de Bricassart engaged Grace in a very unholy conversation, more than insinuating (emphasis on the "sin") his romantic interest in her. Talk about an existential quandary, one that my dear Grace wanted nothing to do with.

We fled to Escape from New York Pizza on Castro. I love their pizza! Delicious, perfectly crispy thin crust and very flavorful. My mouth is watering just thinking about it, which is why I indulged in their pizza three times over the weekend. Mmm ... I digress.

After pizza, the priest, the dyke and the straight chick got into a cab and I ventured back to Moby Dick's. That's where I met Doug, a very tall, robust gentleman in his late 30s with slightly slivered hair and a gorgeous smile. Clearly I'm a sucker for that, but that came a bit later in the evening, pardon the vague innuendos.

Doug and his three pals, one couple and one ex boyfriend, were a breath of fresh air. They were welcoming, talkative and genuinely nice. Very un-Seattle I have to say. They invited me out on the sidewalk for a toke and then Doug bought us a round of drinks. We stayed at Moby's for one more and then headed down to a much smaller, quieter bar called the Men's Room, just down the block.

Not long after our arrival to the Men's Room, we were sitting at the bar when the gentleman next to me stood up on the bar stool, hefted his glass up high and announced the death of his father, asking everyone to join in his toast. It was the sort of moment you'd see on the silver screen, but rarely in person. I was so stunned I stood to my feet, placed my hand on his back and asked whether he was serious. He said he had just moments prior received word from his brother in San Luis Obispo, the town where I attended university. He also explained that his dad was very ill and this had been a long time coming. He was glad that his father is at peace now.

The night was winding down, and Doug extended an invitation to his place by Almo Square Park. The park is famous for the row of colorful Victorian "Painted Lady" homes often seen with the San Francisco skyline in the background on films and TV.

Suffice to say my time spent with Doug was the most amazing 12 hour relationship I've ever had! The conversation was great, the intimacy spectacular and he treated me like a complete gentleman. We slept in until nearly noon, and then he took me to breakfast at his favorite greasy spoon. It was delicious and the perfect elixer after a night of tying one on with Father Tom and friends. Afterward, Doug drove me back across town to Russian Hill in his convertible Audi with the top down.

Meanwhile, the girls (Rach and Grace) were enjoying Bloody Mary's at The Cliff House. We had planned to see an art exhibition, but that didn't actually come to fruition. A few years prior, the three of us went to go see "The Universe Within," which is that Chinese exhibit of human cadavers. It was housed at San Francisco's Masonic Temple, and it was definitely not the type of exhibit one should experience hung over. Enough said.

The three of us had an appointment with some other dykes and tapas in the Mission that evening and then we were invited to walk in the Dyke March. At the tapas table, I had Grace to my right and a scruffy dyke to my left. She had a bigger goatee than me! I can't recall her name, but she was very nice to converse with. She said she loved Seattle and had been up recently to film a documentary about bearded ladies. Oh, of course.

We went by foot from the restaurant to the start of the march at Dolores park. I have seen enough dyke breasts (a.k.a. yams in socks) for a lifetime. What was great to experience was the festive atmosphere. People in the row houses and apartments that lined the streets of the march hosted parties. One of the parties consisted of what appeared to be several breeder families, whose children were hanging out of the windows giving peace signs and waving little rainbow flags in support.

Grace and I grabbed a couple of ice cold Sapporros from a sidewalk vendor and drank them out of paper bags during the march. By the end of it all we had all we could handle, so the two of us left Rach to her fellow dykes and devices while we grabbed a cab back to Russian Hill.

Despite having gone to bed at a very respectable hour, 10ish, morning still came a bit early. We had to get Rach to the airport and then had a brunch with Grace's friends at none other than their favorite Polk Street haunt, Bar Johnny, which I lovingly refer to as the Regal Beagle. They offered a phenomenal brunch.

I had poached eggs with lox, sweet potato hash browns, mixed greens and bottomless mimosas. Grace shared her brioche with me, which was absolutely one of the most delicious things I have ever tasted. They clearly slice their own fresh brioche loaves and then throw the slices on the grill with some butter. Simple yet mildly sweet and deliciously savory.

After our bubble-filled brunch, the gang (I think there were like eight of us) went with Grace's friend Alysha, whose birthday it was, back to her amazing apartment for a little smoke out. That seemed to be a theme that wove its way through the weekend. Along the way half our group stopped in for a glass of wine at the most charming cafe on the corner of Hyde & Jackson. After the smoke out, we returned to the same corner cafe with the intention of taking the trolly over the hill near the Wharf.

Trolly after trolly passed us by as they were filled to capacity with tourists. So we settled for taking over the sidewalk tables at this gorgeous corner cafe, where we had several rounds in the sun before a chilling fog rolled in. Then it was off to the Bell Tower, where Grace had originally met Priest Ralph de Bricassart. Incidentally, he met us for brunch, but left early to play a round of golf. He was leaving early the next morning to do some fundraising in Portland, Oregon, but was to return to The City a few days later. He ended up cutting his West coast trip short, having to head back to New York to attend a funeral.

I managed to get myself to the airport, drunk as a skunk, all the while wearing my Swallow My Pride t-shirt. I left some DVD's at Grace's and lost a ring through security. Otherwise I returned to Seattle without so much as a scratch, thankfully.

My plane touched down before midnight, and it was still Pride weekend on Capitol Hill. So instead of driving home, I parked near the Cuff. That turned out to be dead, so I walked over to Madison Pub, which was even more so. Decided to have a beer there anyway, which turned into two, which turned into a flirty conversation with a muscle cub, which turned into smooching in an open parking lot among just a few other things ...

Although I always have a grand time in The City, it's good to be home.