Campfire Tales with Aviva Yael

Gather round the campfire kids, I have a sad story to tell. Its a two parter, but I'll begin tonight's tale with my favorite topic: me. Actually, this is ultimately about how I saw a trucker hat on a cute guy, but bare with.

Okay so I went to high school in Marin County, California. Mill Valley is a beautiful enchanted knoll for wealthy hippies who spend their time meditating and eating rocks and minerals. This tangent is steeped in back story by the way. Here tis:

Magical, right?

Well, as much as I love being back in the Bay Area visiting my family I still get bummed out and die of boredom when I come home. Its more stagnant here than a lagoon laden with dengue fever. Going out to socialize in SF is somewhat akin to festering inside a leprosy sore.

There are things I love about the Bay even more than New York of course, but judging from the level of lust that San Francisco guys- and only San Francisco guys- seem to show for me at bars, I'm pretty sure this is where penises come to die.

I mean, in New York its not like this. Its more of an even playing field. When I come home to SF however, I'm suddenly a 10 with the resilient breasts of Giselle and the swanlike neck of Charlotte Gainsebourg. By the time I get to Baggage Claim someone's tapping on my shoulder like "scuse me um can I be your boyfriend?" If you mention the words "writer" "from" and "New York" in the same sentence the Mayor gives you a key to the City. Okay so its not that crucial, but seriously if you'd seen us last night you might half believe me.

Why do I hate it here so much you ask?

Well high school sucked, so that's nice. Every time I come back I run into at least one of the skinny nosejobs who tortured me, making my crywalks back home each day after school a regular exercize. Over the years of running into them I've concluded that most of them are yoga turds now. I had fun and started loving life after I graduated, but outside of a few close friends in my inner circle most of my old acquaintances are just rotting in mediocrity and non-ambition. Its utterly depressing. Oh! And my East Bay friends all still live in a conscious hip-hop cypher, so that's good. Hi 1998 called. It wants its Ebonics back. Hey-o! I'm here all the time people!

I will tell you the rest tomorrow with pictures. Somehow this is all leading up to that dumb trucker cap. Time to go to dinner dudes.


5 hours later...aaaand Action!

Oh good so now I'm drunk and home and I can finish my tale. So where were we? Thursday night. Thursday night was first of all AMAZING. Yasi, Jess Kane and Tony are visiting from LA, and Hanni and his bambi-like girlfriend Megan came out. They are the only two SF locals that don't apply to this shitty rant. Also Mira and Lee are immune. So. We went to this dive bar called Jack's on 24th and Utah. I'm only mentioning the location because if you are stuck in SF on business or you sadly live here, I encourage you to go to the City's BEST KEPT SECRET on a Thursday night. Behold:

The host is a 39-yr old bespectacled ex-member of a cover band (probably) who looks like one of the nerd contingents from Lamba Lamba Lamba, or the Tri-Lambs if you will. He goes by the name DJ Purple and not only does he have the sickest Karaoke list I've ever seen, but he:

a) sings your backup vocals
b) during the bridge in a song, clangs his signature pink cowbell
c) plays the sax during instrumental breaks

I MEAN OH-MY-FUCKING-DEEE-LICIOUS GOD. You need to watch the first 43 seconds of the following clip to understand the level of awesome we experienced. We were at a dive bar and not an overweight secretary party as depicted by the subjects in this video. Rather, we were at a balls-to-the-wall hardcore 'rokes sesh. DJ Purple is our new hero. We're already planning on flying him to LA for Lindsey's birthday.


And now we arrive at the point of this whole thing.

As you've probably assessed, I'm not stoked on San Francisco. The people here are nice. They're normal. They're who the heck knows what they are. But one thing they're not is attractive. I know I'm awful, crucify me. I'm no peach either, but that's beside the point. I swear to you even my friends who live here complain about it all the time.

And the guys here? Gag me. At least I put myself together when I go out (shower, mascara, voila). At least I have enough respect for the public to not just rock my printed flannel PJ pants and a wifebeater out to a bar with a fleece hoodie and call it an outfit. At least I don't have crusty egg drip leftover in my bike messenger beard and a booger dangling from my beanie when I go out at night. And at least, at the very least, I don't engage in condescending holier-than-thou vegan rants with people I just met because you know what? I'm much more polite than that. Sometimes you don't have to be a lazy douche to be considered cool or intelligent, you know?

And Thursday night when Yasi, Jess and I were all looking around at the most awesome karaoke crowd ever...a room filled with good hearted, good times having, good people, we spotted a hot San Francisco guy! One hot guy in a sea of happy humans. Its not that we're interested in hooking up with anyone but at least our eyes were no longer bored. And there he was, the only remotely attractive person in the entire City... wearing a goddamned trucker hat. An ironic, unfunny, 2003-style, Urban Outfitters made "Idaho? Udaho!" trucker cap.

Oh and his friends? They were caught dead in a pair of Adidas Sambas (just got chills) and a Coogi sweater. Remember those old Vice parties they used to have at the Pussycat Lounge with the strippers-slash-petting zoo goats about 5 years ago? The kind of party that the Cobrasnake would post on his site? These were those dudes. I mean, I died. And so did my oves. We're all dead. The end. And now you hate me.


Shallow Hal