Two Tales of a City: The Icing on the Riot and Pot Luck Sunday
I moved up to San Francisco a couple of months ago, and since I've been itching to do some writing (at least, I think it must be a writing thing, since the cream the doctor gave me for it didn't help), here are two stories.
The Icing on the Riot
Fuck Cops, or... wait, Suck Cops? Depends what kind of trouble you're in I suppose.As you're probably all aware, the San Francisco Giants recently won the World Series. While I'm not a baseball fan, there's nothing I'm a bigger fan of than a good riot. Luckily, I live in the ghetto, so the worst of the post-victory riots were easily within walking distance. I headed out with my roommates, exchanged a lot of high fives with strangers on the way, and enjoyed the riot-related pleasure that is the de facto suspension of open container laws.
Once we found the crowd, I did a few of those other things that are only permitted when a sports team wins its respective title: for one, I hopped on the roof of a cab and rode it down the street for a while (for those of you who don't live in cities, on any other day the cabbie murders you for attempting this). I also helped fuel some bonfires, while in true San Francisco style, a handful of environmentally-conscious rioters kept removing all non-paper items from the flames while yelling about pollution and toxic fumes.
Finally, I Iced one of my roommates, which, due to a combination of our heavy drinking and his girlish alcohol tolerance, sent him into the kind of drunken rage that led him to believe someone had pissed on his leg (reality was that a drink had been spilled near him). This led to him getting in some guy's face, which led to that guy decking him, which led to the back of his skull connecting in a very solid way with the concrete as he fell backwards.
I probably should've jumped in and defended him, but, frankly, I grew up in a suburban beach town, and I'm not winning any fights in a bad part of San Francisco during a riot. Besides that, he was out cold, and people had started throwing glass bottles in the direction of the police, who I've neglected to mention thus far were mounted up in riot gear at the end of the block. We got him up and booked it away as they started marching towards us in formation. It's a good thing it was a worthwhile story, because I had to tell it to my newly concussed roommate eight different times on the way home.
Pot Luck Sunday
Last Sunday, I woke up and realized I was out of pot. Since it was a Sunday morning, that also meant I woke up feeling like I'd been bludgeoned with a sack of doorknobs—a problem to which pot is my answer. I also had a day's worth of football to watch (though, thanks to ridiculous television regulations that those of you who care are already aware of, I'm forced to constantly watch the 49ers and the Raiders), and, quite frankly, that's something I like to be stoned for.
Fortunately, I have a prescription for marijuana (crippling insomnia and all that); unfortunately, every dispensary I've ever encountered is closed on Sundays. Because of the prescription, I'm without a good old fashioned drug dealer, so I tried something I'd heard talk of from other similarly medicated friends: delivery.
Sure enough, a Google search revealed The Green Cross, which delivered from 10-7 every day. I emailed them a copy of my prescription at 9:30, got a call at 9:45 confirming I was good to order, and was told the driver would be dispatched with my medicine at 10. For good measure, I followed that up with a trip to GrubHub.com, which I love for the fact that it's eliminated my need to speak to another human being in order to have food delivered to me. I picked a pizza place that opened at 10 so I could race the drivers against each other.
Forty-five minutes later, the doorbell rang—victory for the weed man. In addition to bringing my order of sweet sticky icky, he also brought some gifts for his new first-time customer. These gifts included a nice airtight glass jar, a white lighter (which my roommate immediately threw away, despite the fact that we can never find a lighter—most wasteful superstition ever), a pot cookie, and some fruit snacks (sans ganja). While I was busy unwrapping my presents, the pizza showed up—truly a fantastic morning in a fantastic city.
Gotta say, I'm loving San Francisco.