I must say here that scrolling down and rereading to the two previous installments or at least the previous one (not counting the March 21st plead for more patience) will be beneficial to anyone visiting this site and wanting any idea of what the hell is going on. I know it has helped me in writing the next chapter.So, where were we?As it turned out, Jean had access to some primo tickets to the Giants game to be played Saturday afternoon. In the weeks before the trip, we had all talked casually about seeing the game, but my wife and I were a bit wary of trying to do too much that weekend (including the Black Crowes concert at the Fillmore Saturday night. Remember, that's what this story is ultimately about--I think). A baseball game and it's inherent exposure to the Sun and beer drinking could be the rancid meat in a two-night party sandwich. After much discussion about taking the proper precautions (mucho sunscreen, no fistfights with Astros fans) and swearing to not alter the definition of moderation (single digit beer consumption) to suit our needs, we looked at each other and quoted the rally cry of the doomed; "Fuck it, let's do it!". We told Jean we would go for it and she secured the tickets. ------------
Back in the room late Friday afternoon, we slugged down the Sapporros with glee. It was good to be out of town with a whole evening at our disposal. This night was to be what I call a catch-all night, rambling around and popping in wherever we please to experience things without an agenda. We did have dinner reservations, if only to avoid wasting time waiting for a table and to help accelerate our launch into the foggy City night. The wives were freshening up a bit while Scott and I pretended not to notice the amount left in each other's bottles. We tend to compete at times over speed and quanity of beer consumption. It's childish and stupid, but does it ever make for some good times. I can usually out-drink most men in or out of my weight class, including Keno 90% of the time, but now he was pulling away early. I smiled and could not keep out of my mind the story of the tortoise and the hare.
We walked from the hotel to Benihana for tepin-yaki. We ordered another round of Sapporos (this time the gigantic bottles) from an attrative fortysomething Japanese waitress with a latent air of sensuality about her and waited in the lounge for our table. The beer was going down smoothly and quickly. As we were seated around the heated sheet of metal from whence our food would be prepared and served to us, one glance at the menu had us ordering more Godzilla beers and a round of saki. We decided to order a milky style saki, celebrating the memory of a wild night out for Janet's birthday earlier in the summer.
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On that night, we all started out on our best behavior at a Japanese restaraunt back in Fresno--- we being Jean and Keno, Janet and Scott, and the wife and I--sitting on tatami mats on the floor of a private dining room. The evening putrified into a morality meltdown. We ordered bottle after bottle of saki and toasted with our adorable Japanese waitress, Kiko, getting her properly shitfaced on the job. Nobody could drive, so we naturally called a limousine to pick us up. We ended up at a topless joint and drank stale draft beer from plastic pitchers. One couple dissapeared back into the limo and my wife and I dutifily went to find them. I blindly peered into the smoked windows, all the while asking stupidly, "What are you guys doing in there?". My wife noticed the driver's door was unlocked, hopped inside and proceded to climb through the partition into the passenger compartment. She got an eyeful of what those two were "doing in there" and fell out of the car laughing her ass off. Later on the way home in the limo, I received a lap dance going down the freeway from one sister-in-law while the other sis-in-law grabbed a handful of my goodies and my wife giggled uncontrollably watching the whole scene. I know what you're thinking and you're right; I got the life.
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So even as we downed the saki at Benihana in San Francisco, we laughed as we just knew we'd be on better behavior this evening than we were during the last saki episode. Funny what you can believe in before events are set in motion by alchohol.
The meal was enjoyable as expected. We watched and applauded as the chef made his onion volcano, flipped shrimp tails, and did all the rest of the Benihana tried and true stunts. After dinner, we posed for pictures with huge statues of jolly bears back in the lounge and I lamented the fact that I haven't yet secured a super lucky cat statue. You may have seen the super lucky cat at your favorite asian restaraunt as a advertising piece for Asahi beer or perhaps sitting in a window of an antique store. Sculpted as a cat sitting on it's hind quarters with one paw raised, it is a symbol of luck. I've always wanted one for some reason. As the waitress who served us previously before dinner walked by, I pointed to the Asahi beer cat and asked what a guy has to do to get one of those damn cats. She raised her eyebrows and said, "Oh, we just got a bunch of those in. We're going to start selling them".
My heart jumped. "How much?", I blurted. She scratched her chin and looked at the bartender. He said with a thick Japanese accent something I couldn't decipher. She turned back to me and said "Seven dollars".
"Oh, get me one!", I laughed. The others laughed too. The waitress returned from the kitchen entrance with box. "We haven't even seen these yet. I think we're not selling them for a while", she said. She took out the cat, still wrapped in it's shipping material. Tearing off the brown paper, she revealed a totally white super lucky cat with a egg sized hole in the back of it's head and a thumbnail sized hole just below it's neck.
"What's with the holes?", I asked. "Looks like he had a tracheotomy".
The waitress looked at me for a moment, no doubt the English to Japanese translater in her brain stuck on tracheotomy, but then took the cat over to the bar and pointed to the bottles behind against the mirror. "You drink out of it".
"Oh, it's a souvenier glass. Well, what do you get in it?", I asked. She forwarded my question to the bartender with a simple glance and this time his answer was so strongly accented that he may have actually replied in Japanese for all I know. Obviously, she didn't have the English to tell us exactly what the drink was, but she gave it a good shot. "It's uh, a fruit drink, very sweet, good, good".
"Does it have booze in it?", asked Keno.
She laughed and said yes. We all heartily agreed that we should order this drink. The bartender looked very pleased to make it, smiling and nodding to us as he mixed various ingredients and poured them into the hole in the back of the cat. By this time, a manager type that reminded me of Odd Job from Goldfinger had come out of the kitchen and was giving us a good once-over and seemed to make our server a little nervous. The bartender handed her the drink and she took my money. We all took sips out of a straw protruding from the tracheotomy hole. It was a heavy and sweet drink all right and plenty strong too. We thanked them all and waved as we made our way to the exit. The burly manager grunted something to the server and she scooted over to us, blocking our way to the door. "Oh, no no. You can't take the drink with you, only the cat", she stuttered.
"Oh yeah, the drink", I said. The four of us, embarrassed, giggled a bit. It made perfect sense that we should be able to take an alcholic beverage out the door of a restaraunt at the time. I continued, "No one will know its booze. Maybe they'll think it's a Slurpee cup or something". The manager barked something again, this time a little under his breath. She told us to wait for a moment and disappered into the kitchen. She came back with a white plastic bag from Walgreen's. She took the cat and wrapped him up like a baby in swaddling clothes and handed him back to me. She patted me on the shoulder and sent us out into the night. We smiled stupidly and alternately took sips from the straw sticking out from the plastic bag as we walked in no particular direction.
We ditched the bag a block away or so as we hunted for a bar or club. But we had drained the cat of it's life's blood and Jean and I wanted to replenish the supply. As Mary and Keno walked ahead, Jean and I ducked into a corner bodega. We ordered a handful of airline bottles of Jameson (Mary's fave) and promptly poured them into the back of the cat. We caught up with Keno and Mary and passed the cat. Mary took a sip and smiled, figuring out what we did. "That cat's a troublemaker", she cooed. Just then, a couple spilled out of a restaraunt arm in arm, laughing. Jean yelled to them, asking where a hot bar was in the neighborhood.
The guy looked up surprised, shaken from his own little world but not missing a beat. "He looked beyond us a few blocks and said, "C'mon, we're heading to one right now. It's right up the street". With that, he took Jean by the arm and took off. His date, a cute little thing that looked about 12, grabbed Keno and followed. Mary and I stood still for a moment and looked at each other blankly. "I guess it's you and me, babe", she said and we hooked arms and trodded off after them.
Just a block from Japantown, we squeezed into a packed Irish bar full of college aged people who must have just gotten done shooting spreads for the Abercrombie and Fitch catalog. Men wearing distressed jeans and polos or t-shirts with oh-so-clever sayings on them; girls with exposed midrifts and low rise pants. We stood out pretty badly, but no one seemed to notice us. Here we were, dressed nicely, 15 to 20 years older than the average patron, and me clutching a ceramic cat that smelled of Irish whiskey. But we were invisible. Except for Keno that is. This guy pulls in looks from women like you wouldn't believe. Tall, well built and pretty good looking, he still seems oblivious to the looks he gets. But I'm not. I feel like the little dog in the Looney Tunes cartoon who's kind of a sidekick to a bulldog. He bounces around the bulldog enthusiastically; "Hey Spike, what do ya want to do today, huh Spike?". Well, that's me; "Hey Keno, you see that one? She looked at you like a plate of roast beef". If I were single, I'd take him everywhere with me just for the possibility of catching some lady-shrapnel.
We didn't hang around there too long. Getting to the restroom reminded me of those high school biology films of actual bloodstreams, cells bumping into each other, squeezing around one another. I wonder if blood cells have the decency to say excuse me because these kids didn't. Tapping someone on the shoulder did no good. Halfway to the men's room, I felt like a hamster squeezing it's ribcage to escape through a crack in the Habitrail. I gave that up and simply started moving people with gentle force. A few frowns and "what the fuck"s later from the TAG Body Spray army, I made it to the bathroom and back intact and relieved. I laughed at some of the scowls these pretty boys gave me as they we placed a few feet from where they wanted to be by this author. Easy there Junior, I've got Irish blood in me and now I've added some whiskey. I'm Clark Kent looking for a phone booth, motherfucker. Besides, you don't want me to sic my cat on you.
Next Up: Singing With Mama-san
