The taste is really what struck me. The saltwater flavor of the Bay seems somehow more potent than it does off San Francisco's Pacific shores. But other added aftertastes seemed to linger. And while I didn't really have the contextual wherewithal to identify what they were, I tried to analyze them as best I could. I thought I tasted metal, for example, which seemed obvious, as well as a hint of gasoline (again, obvious). But also a little, hmm… was that rubber, perhaps? Sidewalk? Urine? Maybe a hint of Formica? Strange thing is, first thing I remember thinking after I climbed out of the bitingly cold, green-tinged piss-water this morning (having forgotten to remove my shirt, having lost all semblance of pride, shivering, my teeth chattering, saying “hghghghghghghggggggfuckiss c-c-cold” only to myself and making other assorted weird noises), I had an abnormal flashback to a couple months ago, the first time I walked past Extreme Pizza on Filmore. It was then that I wondered aloud to a friend, the aforementioned Sexy Bitch, “What would someone put on a really extreme pizza?” She answered: “Golf balls, maybe? Socks? Tweezers? Banana peels?” But that was wrong.