La French Imposteur

I checked in at 312 Mason St. just after 3. I dumped my pack off in my room. Much to the dismay of the sole person in the room. I don't think he appreciates my anti-skunk socks. He has been spraying flowery smelling chemicals all over the place. in an attempt to cover up.

The girl running the operation at the reception desk gave me a little tourist map of Downtown, circling all the cool places. I found out where the City Lights bookstore was, and Vesuvio a famous beat hang out. That turned out to be the first stop on the historic tour of San Fransico.

In the City Lights bookstore I headed straight downstairs for the Political section. Within minutes i was sitting on a chair reading a book about the 9/11 debacle. There are alot of holes in the “official” story. Of the 60 or so pages that i read, I managed to glean enough information to see crediblitiy conspiracy theory. I don't want to dive to deeply in this subject. The most prominent instiller of the idea that it was an inside job is the fact that the towers fell so smoothly. Like a controlled explosion. Straight down. That sort of thing doesn't happen by accident. There is a mistelling of the truth in the “official” story. Its plain to see to anyone who views the events of that day. The truth is littered with holes.

I wandered upstairs later. To the beat section. I read half of Allen Ginsberg's “Howl.” and leafed through a book of Kerouacian haiku. There were pictures on the walls, faces of the famous and infamous. To many books to peruse and not buy. To much history. So i fled.

Across the street to Vesuvio. Sneaking in for the afternoon happy hour. Saddling the stool near the door, i ordered a pint and scanned the various memrobilia that adorns the wall. A picture of Henry Miller aged and grandfatherly. The Bums themselves Jack, and Neil. Posters of various vintage, with line drawings of people with musical instruments. Jazz. Clipping of newspaper articles, faded yellow with the print slowly slipping off. Photos. This Bar drew the attention of the Beat, as a result of drunken entrance by Mr. Cassady. It soon became a hangout for the scene. Kerouac dawdled here while on route to Big Sur, to meet up with Henry Miller. I had two pints and a conversation with a man with one of those devices that simulates voice. The monotone cursing was hilarious. No intonation does strange things to conversation.

The Bah

It was getting on evening when i returned to the Hostel. I set up my laptop in the common area. There were 6 people all tickin, ticky, tick, tick. I said hello to the only one whose eyes turned from the screen. He plugged me into the powerbar at his feet. As I waited to fsck, I managed to make eye contact with a few others. The Asian girl smiled and nodded. The cute girl with the deep brown eyes said “bonjour.” The gamer didn't loose his focus he just kept mashing the arrow keys.

As I busted into a internet session, a conversation developed between me and the guy who plugged me in. He was curious about my computer. He thought it looked pretty old. I showed him Ubuntu the debian/linux system. He was curious about a few features. Mostly nerdy stuff.

The girl with the brown eyes kept on sneaking peaks at me. So i sparked a conversation. The usual hostel conversation. “Where are you from?” “Ahh I am from all over.” The usual response in places like this. A floater. “I lived in France.” (she was talking with all upward intonation, much like french people do) then it was back to the computer for a little while longer.

photo/photoshop creds go to Jeff Mori on this one

I got up to go for a smoke a little later. She came along. She had a pack of Export A Greens. How very Quebecois i thought. We talked about a bunch of things out on the street. Like french cigarettes and Quebecois cursing. I shouting out a few “Chalis, Tabernack.” I noticed some strange shifts or slips to her accent out there. Her word choice was very valley girl american. At some points her voice got very nasal and New York Jewish, At other times there was a Detroit feel to it, then out of Nowhere some Hispanc venacular would slip in. It was clear that this girl wasn't just french. She seemed to know the language fairly well. But english seemed to be the mother tounge. A changer of the ways she talks.

Back to computing. The Gamer was still in his zen state. Mori was tacking away at some email and trying to sell his CD. The Asian girl had left, and a few more people showed up. Some people were debating Chavez in Cuba. I fell back into computer mode. Stopping every once and a while to chat with Mori or Farrah. Farrah tried to convince me that it was an excellent idea to go out bar hopping that night. I wieghed my options: Go out with Cute crazy girl, or hang out with geek1 and geek2. The choice was obvious. I hung out with the geeks. Yeah right!

So The French Impostuer got dressed and we went out. Her slipping got worse. It was clear that this girl was more american than french. I continued to go with it as it was funny. She took me to a Saloon off broadway. It was the genuine article. A long bar with polished brass. The man behind the counter was drinking a Black Russian. I ordered a couple of heineken's. Only had to pay for one. The tender comp'd the ladies drink. The bar was just starting to fill. The Ornate behind bar woodwork tantilized the eye, with its glassy sparkle and deep rich wood hues. Entracing. We left after the first drink. Heading down broadway to Crowbar, a punk-rock dive. It was empty. Once again the ladies drink was comp'd. I had a PBR. The jukebox was filled with classic punk. Minor Threat, Dead Kennedys, Misfits, Ramones, everything. I slipped in a bill and we selected a couple classics. Punk rock is a blessing and curse on the Jukebox. The songs are short so your selections come up fast, The flipside is that your songs are over just as quickly.

Our songs came on Half way into a game of pool. I was kicking ass. Usually i am terrible. Somehow i managed to sink all my balls and was on the 8. She still had half the table to clear. Our songs ended when i shot for the 8. I sunk one of her balls and then she cleared the table. A sexual euphimism if ever i heard one.

Our next stop was the titty bar. A classic furtherment of a debaucherous night. Farrah had been there the night before and had gotten up on stage allegedly. I have a feeling she was telling the truth because neither of us had to pay the $5 cover to get in. I bought some $8 beers and we watched the show.

The Dancer on stage was the Dom type. She had on long leather boots and a black leather thong. Her hair was in a tight pony tail with a bit of bangs slicing across the forehead. There was a Birthday girl up next to the stage stuffing money in her thong. When the dancer found out that it was her birthday, she got a spanking.

The Second dancer up was a little black girl with long braided hair, most likely extensions. Did she ever have an ass that wouldn't quit. Part of her act was to do the splits middle stage, and bounce her buttocks like muscle bound jerks make their pecs dance. It was most impressive. It got my dollar. She was also quite the pole climber. As skill upside down as right side up.

We didn't stay for long during the third act. It was a platnium blonde type doing the Marylin Munroe thing. Not to interesting. Her choice of music was the 80's hit by “Soft Cell.” BOOORing. Back out into the night.

We went back to the Saloon. Got through without paying cover. It was hopping in there. There was a Band up on stage now. They were playing some very up-tempo bluesy, jazzy, jumping, stuff. People were dancing on the tiny dance floor. I ordered a White Russian. Farrah got a bigger one comp'd. Damn, sometimes i wish i was a cute little girl.

We danced, Oh, How we danced. With everyone on the floor. It was just me and a black guy with some fast feet, and about 6 womenz. I didn't stop till the big lady singing had to get a cocktail. The second Set was equally a gyrating. A few more womenz on the dance floor. I dragged out another girl from the hostel. Awesome.

At the end of it I was completely wiped. Having been up since 6:30. We got a cab and toured back to the hostel. Where I said good night and passed out to the smell of Air Freshner. The japanese man really doesn't like my stinking feet.