Sunday Morning Hang Over

Every Sunday morning Michele and I eat breakfast at a different local restaurant, but no matter where we go, we see this guy and his friends at the table next to ours.





You know this guy, he's the "Sunday Morning Hung Over Guy", he has a greasy faux hawk and fat swollen Jimmy Kimmel eyes. He wears his college sweat shirt and eats a giant plate of huevos rancheros. He drinks a large orange juice or a large mimosa, if he's smart.

But sadder than the "Sunday Morning Hung Over Guy" at the table next to ours, is the "Sunday Morning Hung Over Girl" at the table next to them. She shouts at her friends with that thick Minnesota weather lady accent that so many girls under the age of 35 seem to have. Her thong is worn provocatively pulled up over her unwashed sweat pants, and her make up is gone, left behind on the pillows of the "Sunday Morning Hung Over Guy".

Oh,to be young again!

Dan's Journal Entry

06/12/09

Last week Michele and I passed by the Cala Foods grocery store on our way home from dinner, I like walking by it because it smells like birthday cake, and Michele hates it because the parking lot is filled with drug addicts and hookers.

As we passed by we heard the familiar sounds of a crazy guy yelling somewhere off in the distance. I said, “ Oh, it’s time to play ‘Where’s the Crazy Guy?” Much like an approaching fire truck, the yelling got louder, but it didn’t seem to be coming from anywhere, until we crested the top of the hill and there he was, standing at the cross walk, his arms casually folded behind his back like someone standing up close to an oil painting at a museum, only instead of quietly pondering it’s beauty he was screaming, “It’s a conspiracy!”

Now, the thing that amazes me isn’t that I recognized this guy as being a fellow patron from two separate neighborhood bars. I’ve seen him once at the Hemlock smiling and talking quietly to himself, and several times as I’ve walked by a depressing dive bar on California street. I’ve seen him seated, again smiling and softly talking to himself, almost as if talking on a blue tooth phone, except there’s no phone. And though that is crazy, it’s functionally crazy. It’s someone who’s had too much to drink and is no longer aware that their lips are moving while they’re thinking. I’m sure I do this all the time. I’m probably doing it as I’m writing this.

No, what I find amazing is, if your brain is so full of “important” information that you can’t keep it from pouring out your mouth and all over the streets, if you can’t keep yourself from screaming this message as loud as possible, why wouldn’t you at least scream something more original than, “It’s a conspiracy!” That’s what everybody screams. That’s lazy crazy talk. But if you do decide to go for this over done genre of ranting at least have something bizarre, and original to follow it up with.

I don’t want to hear about the government or 9/11, that’s first draft crazy talk, you have to come up with something better than that, but unfortunately this guy didn’t. Instead he continued with, “ It’s a conspiracy! Elvis Presley did not die a natural death! It’s the bankers! The bankers killed Elvis Presley!”

Really? Elvis? That’s all you could come up with? Granted he gets a point or two for the bankers part, that was kind of weird, but Elvis is right up there with Aliens. It’s crazy guy 101. I like to hear the good stuff, the stuff you couldn’t possibly make up unless you’re REALLY nuts. If I’m gonna be forced to listen to it, at least make it totally insane. Maybe this city needs a good “Crazy Punch up Guy”. Like Bruce Vilanch is for the Oscars, we need a “street” Bruce Vilanch to come up with some original lunatic rants.

But I guess why bother to come up with something interesting, if everyone is just going to pretend not to hear you. Which is exactly what we did as we passed him. And as we continued up the hill, so did he. Like a stealthy private dick, he casually walked one full block behind us, breaking eye contact and looking at his shoes whenever I turned back to see if he was still following us, and doing all of this while continuing to scream about Elvis and bankers. But after about three blocks he passed a bar with its door open and stepped inside. I’m sure he quietly asked to see a cocktail menu, sat down at the bar, smiled and began quietly muttering crazy stuff to himself, and I bet that stuff, is the good stuff.

Dan's Journal Entry

06/05/09

Walking to Victor’s pizza yesterday, Michele and I passed through a stretch of sidewalk covered in what I can only hope was a yellowish brown mess of dog shit, but was probably more likely, sick, homeless junkie shit. It had been stepped in by several people and possibly a dog or two, and was tracked all over about a block and a half of the sidewalk. There was so much of it that it actually seemed to build with each step rather than fade. It was as if the person tracking it hadn’t just stepped in poo, but was actually wearing shoes made of poo.

After leaving the restaurant we headed back toward the poop-stacle course, when a young sporty lady in workout clothes came striding ahead of us talking on her cel phone. But just as she was about to enter the minefield a very old Asian lady standing in the gutter slowly lifted her cane, pointed to the sidewalk and calmly said, “Ka ka”. And to all of our surprise the young woman, still deep in conversation, simply glanced over at the old lady, then down at the sidewalk, and without stopping, leaned over, reached down, and picked up a paper plate amongst the mess and continued down the street. But as she began to walk over to a trash can, I realized that she’d assumed the old woman was asking her to throw out the plate, to do her part for the city she lives in, and help rid San Francisco of it’s unsightly litter. And as she undoubtedly patted herself on the back, walking toward the trash can, the mostly white paper plate, blown back by the wind, curled up and down in her grip, and with every step, gently patted her on the knuckles with yellowy brown feces hidden just underneath the plate.