We went there in the same mood we always do- jubilant, high-spirited, energetic, and ready to dance. The others had preloaded. Ibrahim, after not having had alcohol for several months as a nod to his observant-Muslim homies, decided to celebrate the end of Ramadan by breaking his sober streak in a big way. He drank almost a fifth of vodka immediately after the bottle arrived in the apartment, brought by my boyfriend, H. We quickly confiscated the bottle so the remainder could be put in a drink for H. As H poured his own drink, Ibrahim began dancing around the apartment, singing made-up songs. H and I eyed each other. It was only 8 o’clock and the others hadn’t even arrived yet.

H sipped his mixed drink slowly and rolled several spliffs at a leisurely pace. We planned to bring these out with us and smoke them at intervals throughout the night. There would be no smoking at home because, we concluded, that would just make us sleepy. When we smoke before we go out, we never end up going out.

Ayman, Shaddi, Khalil, and Francisco arrived, and after greetings, we decided to go.

We hadn’t been to Medjool in maybe six months. A couple members of our regular crew had gotten married, others were traveling abroad, and it just wasn’t the same. But with the core group back in town and ready to party, we decided our old haunt was just the place to go.

Ayman parked the car around the corner from Medjool and we passed the joint around. Everyone had some, even Ibrahim, who clearly was in need of no further inebriation. Even Shaddi partook, something he rarely does. And then, only sparingly. We strutted into the club like we owned it, danced like we picked the music, and drank like it was water. H started spinning me around and doing all that crazy stuff that happens when a man with a bunch of muscles has been spending too much time indoors. It reminded me of how my dog acts when he doesn’t get any exercise for a few days- when I finally take him to the park, he runs frantically in circles with no regard for any of the known rules of our social contract.

My shoe clipped someone during one of these spins, and some security goon stepped in to tell H that he can’t be doing shit like that. There will be no lifting up of his dance partner.

I think that’s where it all started.

First, let me say that H has issues with authority. He came from a country where authority figures are all up in your business 24/7. You can be just walking down the street when a soldier will come up to you and tell you to take your clothes off. So in the land of the free over here, he damn sure expects to dance any way he pleases. But he said “yeah, ok,” to the bouncer, grumbled to me about how he’s never going back to that place again, and we go back to dancing.

Now, unbeknownst to me, at this time, Ibrahim, Shaddi, and Ayman are still outside. Ayman is playing babysitter because Ibrahim is doing somersaults on the sidewalk and Shaddi is sitting on the curb having a bad trip. He’s convinced there was something besides weed in the joint. Ayman, out of boredom, does nothing to convince Shaddi otherwise. In fact, he suggests that perhaps H and I switched joints after we smoked from it, and gave him a different one. You know, like a conspiracy. The paranoia just takes off from there. Shaddi lights up a cigarette and Ayman says, “No man, you can’t do that! If you smoke a cigarette after a joint you could have a stroke!”
Shaddi immediately flicks his cigarette away into the street, as if it was toxic.
“Thanks Ayman,” he says. “You’re a good friend.”

Finally they make it inside and I see Shaddi moving his arms up and down a little in an alternating pump sort of motion. I can see he’s trying to dance but have no idea why he’s so clueless about it. Ayman says to him, “That’s good man. Dancing will make you feel better.”
“Am I doing it right?”
“Yeah, but more like this,” Ayman responds, and pumps his arms a little higher in the air as an example.
“Ok I think I’ve got it.” The paranoia seemed to be fading a little.

We all thought this would be a good time to go up to the roof and smoke another joint. It’s a little cold, but that’s mitigated by the booze, weed, and exercise-generated body heat. We huddle in a circle, all seven of us, and tell stories about old times, good times. Shit the guys did in Vegas, close scrapes, near-arrests, people we miss who weren’t there that night.

I become aware of a bouncer at my elbow and through my stoner haze I gather that H is arguing with him about the joint. Ah yes, the joint, I think. Riiiiiight, that stuff’s illegal. Well no matter. But H’s voice is getting louder. The bouncer leans in close and says “You know I’m gonna have to take that away from you, man.”

It’s then that H has had enough authority for one night. He bellows, “You don’t tell me what I can and can’t do and you’re not taking shit away from me!” Another bouncer at bouncer #1’s side gets on his radio and says something. Immediately, an army of black trenchcoats spills from the stairwell door. They surround us. Bouncer #1 smiles smugly and says, “It’s time for you to leave.”

Everyone except H agrees that, indeed, it is a good time to leave. Look at the time! We must be getting home! But with six of his friends gingerly pushing, pulling, and suggesting that we should go, progress is still slow. He stares down one bouncer at a time and his eyes shoot wrath-darts.

By now the substances have affected his foreign language ability and he begins yelling things that don’t make sense in English. For example, in English we would say “I’m gonna fuck you up.” In Arabic, the same thing would be phrased “I’m gonna fuck you.” So as we make our slow progress down the stairs, H is yelling to one bouncer after another “I’m gonna fuck you, man!”

We’ve finally made it to the bottom of the stairs and are literally three steps from the door when H decides to make his last stand. He plants his feet and stares down at the instigating bouncer, a man who clearly has a hard-on for H personally, since he’s the one who gave us shit about our dancing and then, there is was again, on the roof. Somehow, at this time, Khalil escaped our bouncer escort and went to the bathroom. I’m pulling as hard as I can on H’s arm but he’s like a statue. It’s on lock and it doesn’t even move from his side, not even an inch. His fists are balled, but he’s not a stupid man- he won’t throw the first punch. But I know how bad he wants this security guy to hit him so he can break. His. Shit. Off.

They’re nose to nose, H and bouncer, a very intimate relationship, when H growls, “You want me to fuck you?” Security guy blinks, says nothing, looks at our friends in confusion. The guys suggest to H once more that leaving would be a good idea but H has had enough suggestions for tonight.

Just then Khalil comes out of the bathroom, arguing with a bouncer who has just now realized he escaped to there.
“You have to leave, dude,” the bouncer says.
“I don’t even care, my brother,” Khalil says casually as he strolls confidently to the door. “This place sucks anyway, and y’all are assholes. If I even come back here after ten years I’m a BITCH!”

And the whole group of us spill out onto the sidewalk simultaneously, in a burst of hyena-like laughter, and make our way to the place we always go when it’s after midnight and we’re drunk: the corner taqueria.

In the car on way home, with five of us squished into Ayman’s sports car, H says to Ibrahim, “Man, I told you not to drink so much. Why the hell are you acting so stupid?”
Ibrahim responds, in Arabic, “You know I act like a donkey when I’m drunk. What the hell do you want from me?”

The guy yells again, in a Barry White voice that booms all the way down to Mission Street, “I’M DOWN HERE!” He then pulls out a wad of money and begins to count it in a very obvious way.

Alas, our neighborhood drug dealer is not awake yet, and Barry White ambles on down the street, muttering and counting his money.

UPDATE: Jack says, “Oh look, drug dealer’s awake. Omg that guy has no pants on. That just ruined my life.”

I found these miniature items attached to the wall of the building across the street from my apartment on Albion. The building is the one housing Kilowatt.

Tons more after the jump, and they just get better and better:

Update: By the way, if you think Charlie’s cute in these pictures, check him out in this video.

Last night, Mission High School’s auditorium was filled to capacity and beyond for a reading of this primary source material by actors like Kerry Washington, Benjamin Bratt, Josh Brolin, and Diane Lane. Among the material read was Sojourner Truth’s speech “Ain’t I a Woman” given in 1851 at the Ohio Women’s Rights Convention, Susan B. Anthony’s address to the judge in the case in which she was convicted of casting a ballot, and both Martin Luther King’s and Muhammed Ali’s speeches against the Vietnam War.

The works read were both incredibly poignant and still relevant to our world today. As Frederick Douglass said in 1857, “If there is no struggle, there is no progress.” Zinn, his source materials, and the actors who superbly brought the works to life, have reminded us that it is the underdog who has always changed history, not the powerful.

A film with even more material and even more actors will be coming out shortly, and the website is here.

The girls were smokin hot, the music was sufficiently kitchy, and there was a nice, bloody fight to finish the evening off. There was a mash-up of The Ting Tings That’s Not My Name and Toni Basil’s Mickey. There was M.I.A.’s Paper Planes, Steve Miller’s The Joker, Sublime’s Santeria, and Beck. Old Beck. Like Loser. And of course, Bon Jovi’s Livin On a Prayer, during which the DJ cut out the music at intervals, concert-style, so the drooling and mesmerized audience could yell out the lyrics. My F.O.B. boyfriend could not understand the crowd’s rabid reaction when Aretha’s Respect came on.

In fact, any watcher from the mezzanine above could visually separate the Americans from the foreigners just by paying attention to who was yelling the words and who wasn’t.

When we finally left, we were standing outside chatting when an angry Arab bum rushed a drunk white guy, and then had to be pulled off, kicking and clawing, by three bouncers. Drunk White Guy’s nose was bleeding so bad, the bouncers had to run inside and grab a handful of towels to catch it all. Angry Arab hung around the nabe for no less than an hour more, possibly waiting for an opportunity to finish the fight. I know because I saw him twice more, before and after my 1am taqueria run.

Cleavage, oldies, and a bloody nose. What else could I ask of the Mission?

Strangely, the protesters converged on Wells Fargo holding a 5′x5′ sign that said, “No Police in Greece,” or something like that. I might have remembered more specifically what the sign said had any aspect of the protest- like, at all- made any sense.

After watching for a few minutes and listening to the guy with the bull horn yell (again, not exactly, but basically), “We’ll burn your face off,” I headed across the street to ask some questions. I started with a kid who was holding one side of the aforementioned giant sign.

Me: So what’s the deal?
Him: We’re protesting.
Me: Against what?
Him: Against a police state.
Me: glances around at the dozen or so police officers protecting the protesters and their right of free speech. Wow, it’s really nice of these police officers to protect you while you protest against them.
Him: blank stare.
Me: What’s this about Greece?
Him: It’s about the killing of Alexis Grigoropoulos. He was killed by police in Greece.
Me: Why Wells Fargo?
Him: Huh?
Me: Why are you protesting in front of Wells Fargo?
Him: We don’t like banks.
Me: This bank, or just all banks?
Him: All banks. We’re going to be stopping at a few others.
Me: Ok, that’s cool. So who organized the protest?
Him: Nobody.

Feeling even more confused than when I started talking to this kid, I moved up the street a little and questioned a police officer who was waiting dutifully on his motorcycle.

Me: So what’s the deal?
Police Guy: I don’t know, they’re protesting all over the place. Their last stop was New College. You know the one on Valencia Street?
Me: Yeah. What are they protesting against?
Police Guy: They’re mad at us police. We wouldn’t let them occupy some building earlier.
Me: So why are they protesting outside Wells Fargo?
Police Guy: I don’t know. Earlier they took a vote and everyone voted to just go drink at a bar, but the guy with the megaphone over there, he vetoed that. So they’re here.

I walked away thinking how much I love this ridiculous city.

More:

They don’t fuck around in Athens on Unburying the Lead.

Laser war in Athens on Danger Room.

This thing was staring at me the whole BART ride today. I thought it was going to jump out and bite me!

Those same people tend to get especially touchy when it comes to dogs. These are the people who find dogs unleashed to be a menace to public safety. Who, when sitting at Dolores Park, feel that their personal space has been violated when a dog wanders onto their blanket. And then there is the cardinal sin of dog ownership: leaving the poop. It could be that you forgot to bring a baggie. It could be that your dog has the runs and his excrement is impossible to pick up. It could also be that you’re a selfish asshole, and this seems to be what most people assume first when it comes to dog owners. Hell, let’s be honest. That seems to be what most people assume first, period.

I’ve stopped trying to predict what kind of doggie behavior will offend Missionites, but there is one steadfast rule that I’ve found always applies: on every street, there is one guy who rabidly defends the bush in front of his house from being peed on.

He lies in wait for you. When he sees you pass by with your dog, he either runs out of his house or leans out of his window to reprimand you for allowing your dog to urinate on a living thing. His living thing. Invariably, his junkyard dog approach to communication makes you feel defensive. It puts you on edge. You respond, rightfully if unhelpfully, that his bush or whatever is on a public sidewalk.

It could go lots of ways from there, but most likely the interaction will slide into the realm of threats. He’ll call the police, he’ll kick your ass. In one such situation, a guy even threatened to poison my dog if I didn’t leave his bush alone. No doubt he felt that was fair. An eye for an eye. After all, my dog’s urine was poisoning his bush, or so he thought.

Until now, I have been highly disinclined to yield to such ruffians, such cads. Anyone who would treat another person so hatefully, especially without even trying to ask nicely in the first place, did not deserve to get what they wanted.

But now I’m tired. I just want to walk down the street in the morning without worrying if this dude is going to jump out from behind his gate and hassle me. So I dealt with the most recent incarnation of this situation differently, especially since I now have two dogs to shepherd. I muttered my usual, “It’s a public sidewalk,” retort, then went home and drafted a letter in true passive-aggressive style and stuck it on his gate.

Since then, I have walked down the street in peace. Some might say it’s because my letter was so carefully worded. Others might say it’s because I’ve elected to walk down the opposite side of the street from now on.

Who really knows?

And, for your pleasure, dear readers, I give you The Letter:

Dudes,
I’m the girl who walks her dogs past your house in the morning. You have come out yelling at me twice but have not tried the kinder approach so far. If you had come out and asked me nicely, and kindly, to just bypass your bush, I would have agreed. Not because I agree with you but because I believe in neighborliness.

Secondly, please take a moment to imagine how it would feel if you were a young woman walking alone in a dodgy neighborhood and all of a sudden there are two confrontational guys yelling at you and following you across the street. Do you think this would make you feel amenable to a neighborly compromise? Or would it make you feel physically threatened?

Next time you want to talk to me, how about you try the nicer way? And please be more considerate of my position. I promise it will get better results.

P.S. Imagine how you would want someone to talk to your sister or daughter.

And one last thing. Let it be known that the dogs inspiring such venomous reproach were these:

Girl 1: She prolly want a little grandbaby, huh?

Girl 2: I know, she gonna convince me not to have no abortion.

I wanted so badly to follow them, camera castillo hinchable in hand, to record more of these gems. But alas, I had to pay for my stuff.

Went to Medjool again last night. My third visit and my second visit on a Saturday, “International Night.” I made a movie about this experience, during which I was not drunk or high at all, obviously. In the included movie, you can see that we walked for-EV-uh to get there and got distracted tobogan acuatico hinchable along the way quite a bit. In fact, most of the story consists of the Walking to Medjool Adventure. Finally we arrived to find, as suspected, douchebags galore. The movie includes a psychologist’s analyzation of douchebags, security douchebags specifically.

The Trenchcoat Patrol security guards at Doucheb Medjool are on a collective power trip. I felt at any given moment, no matter what I was doing, that it was wrong. That I shouldn’t be standing/sitting/dancing where I was or talking to who I was or recording what I was. I was approached by security guards no less than five times over the course of two hours and told that whatever I was doing at that moment was not allowed. At one point, they actually broke up a hug.

There was pretty good music this time due to DJ Cairo spinning but the crowd was as douchey as it was last Saturday night. My findings are that Medjool is clean, well decorated, and high-end, which means that douchebags are attracted to it.

Previously on Mission Mission: Medjool: Light on the Douchebag, Please

Romantico, the 2005 film that follows mariachis Carmelo and Arturo around the Mission as they sing for tips, was unbearably depressing. The highlights include: a tour of their apartment, which they share with 8 other people and where Carmelo sleeps in a tent made out of a sheet and a shelf. A phone call in which Carmelo calls back home to speak to his wife Carmela (yes, seriously) and finds out that his mother has lost her other leg to diabetes and is now fully legless, blind, and almost inflables completely deaf. Later Arturo enters “daycare” to cope with his alcoholism.

Basically, the message of the film, if there was one, was that these guys have to choose between living a lonely and poor life in the Mission to send money back to their families or living a lonely and poor life in Mexico where they don’t make any money at all.

The film was 83 minutes long. And I felt every single one of them.

After it ended, I looked to Pauline and said, “Oh GOD I need a hug.”

There was plenty of both of the above Saturday night, the publicized “international” music night. The place was filled with douchebags, and pretty soon it was apparent why. The type of music they consider international was just enough on the ethnic side to make the crowd feel adventurous and exotic, but just enough on the white American side to feel familiar and comforting.

It’s 1999 and Carlos Santana has just made his big return with an album finally tailored to the masses. He mixes his soulful Latin guitar style with white American pop vocals. Rob Thomas singing “Smooth” made us feel like we were a part of the browner crowd while giving us something to identify with. Likewise with Dave Matthews, Everlast and the racially ambiguous Eagle-Eye Cherry. However, normally we did not like to listen to this music in front of actual Latin people, because deep bouncy castle for sale down we realized they would expose us for the posers we were.

This is what Medjool’s “international” night is like. Except you are surrounded by people as white as, or whiter, than you, who are dancing badly to embarrassing music and reminding you with every second that this is exactly what you look like. It makes you want to leave before you are seen by anybody not white.

To worsen the white factor, 9 out of 10 dudes are douchebags of the frat boy or former frat boy variety. They are all dressed exactly the same, with exactly the same hair, and utilizing exactly the same dance moves. But the most characteristic quality of the frat boy douchebag is how he treats his woman. He alternately gropes her and ignores her. Up on the roof, there were several heaters set up. In general, the men congregated in circles around these while their women huddled in the cold outside the circle, suffering because they are wearing the sort of minimal clothing that their boyfriends require to show them off in.

What I do find comforting about the Medjool experience is that for two days afterward, when asked how Medjool was, I responded with some variation of, “Douchebaggery abounds” or, “Sooo many douchebags.” And everyone nodded enthusiastically–there was no doubt what could be meant by this answer.