Saturday, March 01, 2014


An acquaintance, knowing that I despise the twenty-something drunks of Friday and Saturday nights on Polk Street and elsewhere in this fine alcoholic city, said: "Dude, no wonder you don't have a sex life! The places you like are terminally unhip!" As it turns out, hole-in-the-wall eateries in Chinatown and a cigar bar filled with middle-aged men are not optimum places to pick up chicks.

He never goes there, and he advised me to do likewise. Only hip people get any action, and the way to be hip is to go to all the hip places.

He suggested a number of venues.
None of which appeal to me in any way at all.
Skanks, wolves, pervs, and sloppy drunks can be found there.


Follows a list of drinking establishments where you will never find this blogger. Unless it's the end times, or I've finally lost my mind.
They are all delightfully hip.

Ambassador Bar
673 Geary Street.
Fancy and pretentious, great décor.

Americano Bar
8 Mission Street.
Prowling single bankers and junior stockbrokers; a great place for pinstriped lizards. Went there once. Never again. Not my crowd.
They made my skin crawl. Vermin.

Bourbon and Branch
501 Jones Street.
Terminally hip. If that is a disease, you'll catch it here.
Hippy hip hip.

John Colins
90 Natoma Street.
Good place for alcoholic office drones; great selection of booze.
Hippity bippity.

1351 Polk Street.
Responsible for more drunken trannies pissing in the street than almost any other place on Polk. Years ago I walked past and one of the patrons nearly hit me with a stream of urine. This happened in broad daylight. Basically, Polk Street from California southward to City Hall is where scum and sleaze intersect, and it gets worse with each block.

Matador Bar
10 6th Street.
Vintage crap and cocktails for junior members of the marketing team, as well as the sales department. Très yup.

Slide Speakeasy
430 Mason Street.
Hip, pretentious, and filled with singles spreading disease.
Very popular, and considered the epitome of hip.

Ruby Skye
420 Mason Street.
Just about dripping with hipness. More lame wannabees and trash than you can possibly imagine. But oh so very hip. Hip. Hip. Hip.

Red Devil Lounge
1695 Polk Street
Currently a crew of working men is tearing this place up, praise be. Though I dread what will be located there next. For years their flood of loathsome drunks would piss in every doorway for blocks around, or simply standing in between parked cars and doing it in the street.

246 Kearny Street.
If it weren't for all the rutting office trash that accumulates here, this would be a truly splendid place. The staff knows far more about liquor than ninety nine percent of the patrons, and the selection of distillates is extraordinary. Very professional and skilled mixologists. Though that is largely wasted on the mob of oversexed worker bees.

Rouge Night Club
1500 Broadway.
A jam-packed pickup joint, filled with hungry single male maniacs and truly trashy women. Broken glass, sticky floors, and the occasional fight. This place epitomizes absolutely everything I hate about hip bars, twenty-somethings, suburbanites, marketing teams, alcoholics, and hipsters. The phrase 'incurable diseases' comes to mind.

The Parlor
2801 Leavenworth Street.
Full service on many different levels, but not a place for the contemplative man.
Unless he's slumming among the high-priced office trollops.


It is presently Saturday night. Like many people, I shall enjoy a cocktail at some point, but not wherever callow yuppies rut. One should go to a local drinking establishment for conversation, not because one is sexually desperate or depraved.

If one's sexual partners cannot stand the light of day, something is wrong. Perhaps they're vampires.

Hip is for pigs.

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