By Ian S. Port
By Cory Sklar
By Godofredo Vasquez
By Gil Riego Jr.
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
By Christopher Victorio
By Ian S. Port
It's been a long time since I have been to a Mission bar, so I decided to go to none other than Mission Bar, natch. It just says "BAR" outside, which is awesome, and it's long and lean, like a bowling alley. There are patches of regulars, "leagues" if you will, and random hipsters and locals. It's a good stopping point before moving on to dinner or a movie, unless you are an alcoholic, in which case it's a great place to sit and get wasted to AC/DC.
San Francisco, CA 94110
Region: Mission/ Bernal Heights
I was alone again (naturally), and that was all right. I have been isolating myself even more than normal; not e-mailing my parents, not calling friends, and going out in public — when forced to — dressed like a Midwestern P.E. teacher. I am seceding, basically, which is apropos considering that so are more than 30 states in America, each petitioning to be let go of the USA. Texas is of course leading the charge, because let's face it, that state has always acted like its own country anyway.
Bars are full of secessionists. They're good places to go if you can't afford a hotel room to escape from your mate or roommate. You can pick the bar that best suits you and surround yourself with like-minded citizens. It's a cash system based on supply and demand. The bartender is not there to tell you what or how to drink. There are a few ground rules so that everyone can have an enjoyable experience, but beyond that, anything goes.
I hunkered down on my stool bunker, ordered a drink, and then whipped out my portable talking device and dived into the Facebook debating page that I frequent. "Katy you just proved you are an idiot, you lying libtard," wrote one particularly verbose debater from Texas. "Your a moron." (Yes I love it when someone who calls you dumb can't even get "you're" right.)
This is how I spend my time when I am in secession mode. I can spend hours battling it out with extreme right-wingers, and this whole secession-from-the-Union thing was too good to pass up. I pointed out that Texas could go ahead and secede, but that it was one of the 10 poorest states in America, and it has one of the highest crime rates. In fact, I continued, the 10 highest poverty rates are all found in red states, and six out of 10 highest crime rates are in red states, too. Oh yeah, and enjoy having Rick Perry as your emperor, since he doubled the debt as soon as he took office. The debater shot back at me, "Katy you are not smart enough for this, you are too easy to defeat, and you are unable to make a single rational point." Never mind that I had just made about 20 rational points. "Obama wants the economy to collapse," he continued. "He thinks he becomes king, I think his head ends on a poll." I pointed out that he probably meant "pole," and he went back to sputtering like Yosemite Sam. Man, this was fun.
"You are cracking yourself up, huh," said the guy next to me, who seemed like a bike messenger of some sort. I sat up straighter and felt a bit embarrassed.
"Nah, just duking it out with a Teabagger online," I said.
"Sucks to be him," he said, with the implication, I believe, that having lost the election would be sucky, not the fact that he was stuck jousting with me. I told him that the guy I was debating wanted to secede from the Union and was talking about civil war.
"No shit?" he asked me, chuckling. "Okay, I'd be laughing too."
"Yeah they haven't really thought this thing through," I continued, but I noticed he was drifting away again. No prob, I had to get back to the nut who was telling me that Texas had a large enough standing army to take care of things itself. After more verbal artillery, my brain began to hurt, so I logged off.
The bar had become fuller, and these patrons were serious boozers. What would happen if there was some horrible catastrophe and we were all stuck here, in the Mission Bar, for a month, in some sort of hipster Lord of the Flies? Firstly, I would hide the fact that I had three Clif bars in my bag, foreseeing my own death at the hands of some fat guy named Charger. Secondly, a separation between the actual daily drinkers and the social drinkers would have to be made, and vodka rations handed out to the shakers. Rationing of electricity to play the Frightened Rabbit EP would also have to begin at sundown. Men would bless the fact that they had mustaches to keep their upper lips warm on those cold nights, and the girls in tights would also leave an offering to the gods for the extra layer. I would be the luckiest, because my yoga pants, hoodie, knee-socks, and Adirondack jacket would be more then enough to keep the elements away, as well as any suitors.
The only thing missing in this survivalist ensemble, of course, is the scapegoat, the Piggy. My guess would be one of the two girls down on the end who looked like they made a wrong turn somewhere in Cow Hollow. Yes, they would be the Molly Ringwald character in The Breakfast Club, ridiculed for their pedestrian, elitist fakery. It would later be revealed that they both had come from dysfunctional families with absentee fathers and childhood leukemia. Once they show this vulnerability, they'll earn everyone's respect.
Damn, I almost wished the Big One would hit at that moment, so my fantasy could bear out. Alas, when I emerged outside, it was just another brisk S.F. evening with the faint hint of stale piss floating in the air.
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