Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

San Francisco

The San Francisco Gray Line tour guide/driver did not show us pictures of himself riding camels, unlike his compadre in New York City. And he did not insult any of the passengers, Stacey, in particular, unlike his compadre in New York City. The guy did a great job showing us around the City by the Bay, pointing out that one person plunges to his or her death every 2 1/2 weeks from the Golden Gate Bridge.

Far more significant than that experience, however, was breakfast with the Right Honorable Chuck L. Hut and the Hut family. Sunday morning brunch at Q Restaurant on Clement Street was very good.

But the company was superb. After having checked identification of those in attendance, pursuant to the requirements of the Pribilof Islands Transition Act, I can confirm the existence of the elusive Kel and precocious Zach; however, I wish to point out that neither have been adequately described by the esteemed scrivener, Mr. Hut, because no mere mortal wordsmith could ever do so. I can only say that the time spent with the Hut family was far too short, but of infinite value.

As for San Francisco, it is a very interesting place; I understand why residents do not voluntarily leave the City by the Bay, with its eclectic mix of peoples and cultures, its intimate neighborhoods, its weather, its sights, sounds, and seafood (Seafood isn't on my list of favorites, but others say it is good).

We hooked up with pseudo-son, Mark the Ferretless, and his wife, Sarah, Saturday, for espresso at Mario's Bohemian Cigar Store and Cafe across the street from Washington Square Park, where the Fiesta Coloniale Italiana, celebrating the 90th anniversary of the founding of the Italian-American Brotherhood in San Francisco, was in full swing. Mark and Sarah's friend, Patrick, joined us and showed us around the waterfront on a misty late afternoon, before late dinner at the Top of the Mark Restaurant, which is located in the Inter Continental Mark Hopkins Hotel, where Stacey and I stayed.

I have one criticism of the hotel. We woke up at quarter to five in the morning, Eastern Time, and flew to Las Vegas on Southwest Airlines, where we had a two-hour layover, then caught the flight to SFO, where we walked 17 miles to get our rental car, finally get on 101 to the city. It was 3 o'clock, Pacific Time (6 p.m. EDT), when we drove up California Street toward, on the left, the Mark Hopkins Hotel. Here's the criticism: The parking garage is not well-marked. The front driveway is not well-marked -- not for someone, who has been up since 4:45 a.m., Eastern Time, and has never been to San Francisco. Oh, yes, I admit that I have seen all of the Dirty Harry movies on television and watched Streets of San Francisco, when Michael Douglas was not an older man; so, I have seen San Francisco; but those fleeting images, you must realize, were simple two-dimensional constructs of a highly-textured, three-dimensional world cathode-rayed onto a 13-inch on-the-diagonal phosphorescent screen.

As I was saying, the driveway to the magnificent front entrance of the Inter Continental Mark Hopkins Hotel is directly on the corner of California and Mason Streets, where the curb ramps for the disabled are usually located. How was I supposed to know that?

So, I turned left from California onto what was supposed to be Mason Street. "Street" means something in English, but what do I know? What I mean was that I was expecting to turn onto a street, and not drive over a fucking cliff that made a strong-willed women whimper, then scream, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING??? STOP, STOP, STOP!!! SLOW DOWN, SLOW DOWN ... NO, NO, NO, NO ... YOU'RE GOING TO SMASH INTO THAT STREET!!!!!! JESUSFUCKINGCHRISTWHERETHEFUCKAREYOUGOING??? OH, NO-O-O-O-O-O, NOT ANOTHER ONE!!!! FUCKFUCKFUCK, SLOW DOWN, SLOW DOWN, WHAT THE FUCK ... YOU FUCKING IDIOT, WE'RE GONNA DIE!!!!!"

As I reflect upon this experience, it was not quite as bad as driving on Going-to-the-Sun Road; but it was at that very moment that I realized -- and you hear stories about this kind of cathartic moment, a moment of clarity, whatever you may want to call it -- that there is a God. And my life is His sit-com. Sparks flying as I turned, realizing the fucking traffic signals are on the sides of the road among the signs for the corner market and DO NOT ENTER and people's faces blurring by; so, what the fuck am I supposed to do?

Why, enjoy the ride, of course!

Posted by Bill at August 19, 2008 12:36 PM