Certain movies, when viewed by my ADD riddled mind, disable the ‘that can never happen’ portion of my brain. Ridiculous dreams, of hatching seemingly feasible schemes, flourish. I dream of how many years would it really take to repay the damage bill accrued by a legitimate “Hangover” type of Vegas stay, or how ‘Risky’ of a ’Business’ I can really run. But at the onset of an epic ride one is side-swiped by the occurring circumstances, that you are rarely aware of the sight you are going to see when you turn around and look back at the end.
As the morbidly obese man that I am, my previous Friday consisted of dreams of delicious food. Later in the day I was to attend an outdoor gathering known in San Francisco as “Off the Grid”.
OTG is a gathering of gourmet food trucks that otherwise roam the streets of San Francisco peddling hot concoctions that should be scoffed at in such dirty circumstances. However in these DIY times that we live, chefs aren’t beholden to a single sessile storefront. If chefs can learn how to drive a large truck(2), they can bring their recipes to any haute-location, after party, barbershop that they seem fit. OTG is just a way to get the community together for a gluttonous occasion. At least that’s how I view it.
Having been the previous day I had a game plan for the entire event. I knew where I was going to eat, portion control to allow for maximum diversity and at what times to be at which truck. I could have created an excel spreadsheet with my information, but decided that the information was too wildly awesome and sensitive to possibly be leaked to the wild.
After arriving at OTG I stuck to my plan, making strategic stops to acquire and consume: one chicken tikka and yellow curry burrito with Indian lime soda, one California hotdog with seaweed and jalapeño mayo, two cupcakes (one Twinkie flavor, one red velvet), 3 pot sticker dumplings, a duck taco, and a $2 bottle of water. I will omit what Nathan ate since I feel my negative attitude toward his petite appetite might entrench my personal thoughts of self-loathing. It was about the time when my vision started to blur and the sugar high was really hitting an intense Everest peak that our friend Ronnie showed up.
Ronnie came to be an adventurous eater as well, but needed to be somewhat responsible since he had promised to serve as an alternate in a friend’s soccer game later that night. A decision that made me incredibly impressed with every bite of delicious dirty delights he took. We left OTG and decided we would make an appearance at an art gallery event before accompanying Ronnie “Ronaldo” to his soccer game as his personal enthusiasm directors.
The gallery name was Fecal Face and the nights art was an amalgamation of street artists from Sheppard Fairey to Mike Giant; also including numerous others who I felt if I hesitated on their names for a moment would send out a signal for an immediate visit from a hipster’s remarks on how not surprised they were at my ignorance and lack of underground street artist knowledge.
After our trio’s Fecal Face exeunt, during our car ride to the soccer field, and before our recounting of the immense hatred of hipsters present within the Fecal Face resident hipster crowd, there was a lengthy discussion as to the exact location of the soccer field. In response to the question of whether or not the field was positioned over water, it was said that the field was located on a pier. We were told, “You can see the city, you can’t SEE the water. The water is un-seeable, but the field is on a pier. There is a building in between the field and the water.” Basically we were frustrated as all hell laughing half at the explanation and half at the absurdity in difficulty of answering what we thought to be such an easy question to answer. Upon arrival we realized where the difficulty came from. The field is located on a pier near pier 23. Basically it is situated behind a large building that houses Teatro Zinzani and next to the Bauer transport warehouse. It may be on top of water, but you can’t really tell. And the frustration continues.
Nathan and I found our way to the bleachers while Ronnie went to talk to his friend who had invited him out to play with her team. I thought we were going to see our friend pounce on fools all over the field, however he was only asked out to serve as a substitute player. Now I am all for the legitimacy of organized club sports. But I couldn’t stop the suppression of the blossoming of the thought of ridiculousness that is having substitute players for an organized league. You are playing a game, on a pier, THAT MAY NOT EVEN BE A GOD DAMNED PIER, with people who I’m guessing aren’t professional soccer players, and YOU feel the need to have extra players outside of your roster? Why? Is there a common occurrence of people committing ankle shattering slide tackles? You are telling me if someone takes a ball in the temple and goes down hard, becomes comatose to the severity of calling an ambulance you’re just going to throw in a SUB and keep that damn game going? If that happened in a game I was playing in I would retire to a bar to sit and reflect upon what just happened, and maybe, just maybe spout a couple of “holy shit” giggles at the fact that I just witnessed what must have been a professional soccer kick to have put someone down like that.
But I digress. Ronnie didn’t feel the need to stay considering the team already had 3! subs, aka 3 people’s ability to function physically to be relinquished.
This was too bad. Nathan and I had been sitting in the bleachers passing time passing judgment on all the players in the form of made up back-stories. In our defense the stories we gave them were unquestionably more badass than their lives; unless of course one of them actually HAD spun a web of lies so fantastical that they were able to sneak onto a Marine transport and fight in Afghanistan only to happen upon, and be inscribed into, Osama Bin Laden’s personal tailoring company where they learned how to sew vests and robes before escaping and finding passage back to the US in the belly of a coal tanker bound for Tennessee where their story had to remain forever locked behind their lips for fear of treasonous accusations. We had also thought of borrowing Ronnie’s car to go do something whilst he played. After playing around with the idea of where we would go if we borrowed his car we ADD’d our way into a story that led to an incredible ending of both Nathan and I winding up in jail and Ronnie’s car filled with the stench of cigarette smoke, giraffe droppings, and being recovered in Rosarito Mexico all a mere 45 minutes later.
But I digress and our stories were interrupted by the sound of a port-o-potty door opening. The toilet was situated 10 feet to our right but neither of us had been aware of its existence until the small frame of an Asian girl walked out. She simultaneously delivered to us: the fact that she had been in there for roughly 15 minutes without our noticing, she had most likely heard everything we had said, and the horrific stench that follows a 15 minute stint in a port-o-doody.
But I digress, further. We got into Ronnie’s Corolla and left. We jaunted down the Embarcadero on our way back to NOPA where it was curtains close on our night. Nathan and I (actually just I) were trying to dodge Ronnie’s advances of heading out for drinks and recruiting wandering females. In the distance we saw a couple waving at our car. I thought nothing of it until I felt the car’s brakes engage. I thought to myself “of course these people want a ride, and of COURSE I’d be the one in the back seat for when we give them said ride, but who am I kidding. Who the fuck gives rides to randoms at 9pm?” As we were slowing down Ronnie, the most genuine dude you will ever meet cemented this fact by uttering the words “I wonder what these folks want?” Does it make me a jerk that in my head all I could help to think was “Funny, that was the same sentence the Zodiac’s first victims thought to themselves in the moments before their demise, hahaha, what a silly thought it is people picking up strangers” My thoughts to myself were cut short when I heard the words from Ronnie to the people outside “sure get in!”
It was happening, I, an over-thinking chronic comedic pessimist was in the backseat with two complete strangers. A few of my thoughts whilst back there: 1) At this rate of motion in this vehicle, I wonder how fast I would have to start running in order to diminish my chance of injury when I jump out of the car when the lady next to me brandishes her hatchet she inevitably has hidden in her bra. 2) Do I really look so non-threatening that a friendly white couple would unquestionably sit next to me in the back seat of a car on a journey they have no control over? And, Is that a fact that I can boast in an online profile? 3) Please don’t puke on me, Please don’t puke on me, Please don’t puke on me, Please don’t puke on me, Please don’t puke on me.
As luck and karma would have it, the couple that we picked up couldn’t have been more delightful! They invited us to the party we were driving them to, told us we were all that was right with society and that more people should do what we did, and even laughed at our jokes. It’s this last bit that won me over, even though in hindsight one of the jokes they laughed at was my “San Bruno, San Blammo!” jokes.
We dropped the nice couple off at their party. On our ride home we decided that they were messengers of the happiest message “tonight is a drinking night”. So we each went to our respective homes and got ready for a night of gallantry and alcoholic gluttony.
It wound up being the greatest night of the “summer” here in San Francisco. Contact info was exchanged; dance contests were participated in, and best of all the night ended with Philly cheese steaks.
(1) I’ve been told I use the term “morbidly obese” like the whore from your high school class who was always calling herself fat to get more attention for her belly button piercing. I think it’s a clear-cut case that I should get a belly button ring.
(2) Notice lack of Chinese food trucks :)
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