On Thursday, after a long night of cracking cold ones with the boys, I took a much needed mental health day. Because of the bed I'd slept in on Wednesday, which had been made completely out of wood, my spine ached terribly and my neck was stiffer than a pedo's pecker in a pediatrician's office. My head hurt, and so did my ass, from sleeping all night on Pinocchio's dick. Earlier that night, while out on the town with my two guests, I'd eaten a wine-soaked pizza, suffered a staggering defeat in a game of two-on-one pool, organized a tour of some of the Mission district's finest dive bars, and then got berated for falling in love with a younger girl, which, I was later told, is frowned upon once a man has reached his thirtieth year. I call bullshit, of course, because the one sharing this morsel of truth was herself over thirty and clearly craving some younger man meat, but, perhaps I am just committing the other cardinal sin they accused me of: not admitting wrongdoing. After I was tried for my crimes, I'd been sentenced to eat at a hispanic bodega called That's It. Even at the time of our post-midnight arrival, a few local patrons had been waiting in line to order what was listed on the menu as a quesadilla, but which was something far more ambiguous: imagine a transgendered taco. What in another life had most certainly been a quesadilla was transformed into a sort of late-night abomination as startling and irresistible as a cock-sized clit. Tres cockos, por favor. We walked home and cracked our final cold one with the boys before retiring well past 2:00.
So, on Thursday, we set out to seize the day once more. I called out of work and we went and got breakfast; pancakes, bacon, eggs, coffee, juice and mimosas. We drove to Muir Woods and looked at tall, thousand-year-old trees. The New Yorkers were blown away by the sheer size of the redwoods. Hiking through trails they stopped to snap countless photos and stare at nature's splendor which, I'd forgotten, is superabundant in California. As we were departing, clearly unversed in the language of universal human symbolism and signage, Nicole, ignoring the sign which showed a hiking person trapped inside a prohibitory sign, traipsed off the trail and into a recovering habitat. Nicole, I yelled, but it was too late. She'd trampled over what must have been dozens of helpless infant plants. I alone heard their cries. Ignoring my plea, she bent down and picked up a shiny looking twig before returning to the area approved for pedestrian traffic. What, she asked, with mild irritation. I pointed to the sign. Whoops, I didn't see it. She brushed me off as one of those alarmist, tree-hugger types, claiming, after I told her about how she'd destroyed a young and blossoming environment, that I'd been living in California too long and had become a soft little bitch. It was only when a disgruntled bluejay appeared, admonishing her for stealing a twig essential for the safe construction of a home for his family, that Nicole admitted she may have overstepped a boundary.
We drove northward on winding roads, through the miles of beautiful golden hills and bristling open meadows full of horses and cows. The sun, turning fields of yellow flowers into luminous lakebeds of glowing light, as we hit Tomales Bay, shimmered on top of the gentle water in soft, sparkling ripples. Sitting on the bay at Hog Island, we ate barbecued oysters and then shucked some of our own. Buena Vista Social Club played while a pair of deer, unaware and unconcerned with us human onlookers, amused themselves in the nearby brush. Complete perfection, save for the bees. Dozens of them swarmed us, stingers ready, crawling on our hands and assailing the air around our faces while they inspected the quality of the oysters. Proudly I notified my friends of my striking composure, explaining my extreme aversion to flying insects, especially ones that sting. While trying fruitlessly to showcase how much I'd grown, how much I'd overcome - literally in that very moment - my lifelong fear of bees, neither Alphonzarelli nor Nicole were impressed. Frankly, and with a happy, contented smile, I told them to go fuck themselves.
Driving back to San Francisco, we were greeted by an eager policeman after having allegedly "rolled through" a stop sign. None of us recalled anything other than the seemingly objective complete stop, but everyone knows an officer's subjectivity trumps collective fact and otherwise damning eye-witness testimony. Alph had a small, single drink the entire time we'd been at Hog Island, and it was consumed immediately upon arrival, so there was no way he was intoxicated. When the cop arrived at the passenger window however, he leaned in and said, "so who's been drinking." What a greeting, I thought to myself, biting my tongue and trying hard not to worsen an already stressful situation. Faggot. Whoops. What?, he said. Oh, I mean, I'm a faggot. The only thing I've been drinking today is cum. Can you step out of the vehicle. No, I don't think that will be necessary. Are you refusing to comply? What ever happened to mutual consent? The next thing I remember is being viciously dragged from the car. I wasn't driving, why am I being given a breathalyzer? Oddly, I'd never seen a flesh-colored breathalyzer machine before. But, come to think of it, I'd never actually seen a breathalyzer. I blew on it and remember thinking it smelled funny, kind of musty, as though it hadn't been properly cleaned since its last use. Only after the patrolman convinced Alfalfa to softly whistle the alphabet backwards into his open nostrils did he let us go. Fucking pigs.
A dinner reservation had been secured for 7:30, at a Peruvian restaurant on highway one, but we needed to get back to the city, shower, and change before heading south to eat. The incident with the traffic ticket had cost us some precious minutes. We rushed, all of us entering the shower at the same time, washing each other like wet elephants and plucking giant dingleberries from our ass-hair like apes, until we were squeaky clean in record time. Not wanting to drive any longer, Al suggested we take an Uber, and we did. Because we managed to arrive early, we sat downstairs and drank pisco sours to celebrate our punctuality. Soon we were seated in front of an enormous window overlooking the pacific ocean. Cups of delicious ceviche had been placed in front of us, along with lovely glasses of chilled white wine. We ate and smiled and talked of how perfect the day had been. The sky, free from any unwanted fog that might have crept in and ruined an otherwise sunny evening, had been clear and lent a spectacular view of the sunset. We watched through the window, over the silhouetted head of a balding man with a wispy tuft of hair, as the sun blazed in all of its glory into a simmering sea. Then we ate the heart of a cow. And had lomo. And paella. And chocolate cake and ice-cream with Peruvian beer and fernet.
On the way home someone farted in the back of the Uber. Nicole said it wasn't her because she was asleep. Alfeef, quoting Shaggy, said, "it wasn't me." I believe him. My money is on sleeping beauty.
She got that woke booty.
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