I'm sticking with the brief moment format here because I'm pressed for time. We San Francisco n-words got hectic schedules.
Clarifying Doyle's points:
-- You Can't Take Diesel Anywhere, Part 1: He actually responded to the peanut throws by saying, and I quote (and I further have corroboration on this): "I will hit a girl!" He also waved his fist at them, then disappeared up the stairs. Adam and I went after him, but luckily a security guard restrained him before he could beat any 13-year-old girls into submission.
--We rolled into Adam's fiancee's sister's house the other day. At the end of the quarter-mile driveway I parked my 1998 Volkswagen Golf next to a new Escalade out front of the biggest effing house I've ever seen. Next to the Escalade were two Benzos. In the garage sat an Aston Martin Vanquish.
"Wow," we said, in unison.
"The Ferrari's over there in the bubble," Adam said, pointing toward the other wing of the garage.
Then we saw his 82-inch TV, above which hangs the aforementioned A-Rod jersey. Crazy shit.
-- I think it's safe to say that Oakland Coliseum exceeded everybody's expectations. The place is big and made of concrete and football is played there, but that's where the similarities between it and the Vet and Three Rivers and Qualcomm end. It was built for baseball, so the sight lines are great, and since in its baseball configuration everybody sits in the lower two decks, it actually feels pretty cozy. You really get up close to the horn-blowing, bell-ringing, obscenity-shouting Oakland faithful.
I'm fairly sure the A's are going to become my adopted team here in the Yay Area.
-- You Can't Take Doyle Anywhere, Part 2: We walk into the Coliseum with $12 bleacher seats and sit down in much better seats in the outfield. In the second inning a couple sits in front of us. A minute later Doyle turns to me with a stricken look.
"I'm sorry, I have to move." He flicks his fingers outward as if trying to catch something.
"I can't see." The guy in front of him is average-height. I'm pretty sure he can see.
"Where do you want to move?"
He looks to his left. "Let's just move down."
So we move down, right in front of the guy in a wheelchair who won't stop ringing his cowbell and his lazy fatass friend who keeps blowing an air horn in my ear. At one point, Doyle gives the lazy guy a pound. Then somebody sits in front of us again, this time a 15-year-old skinny kid.
"What the fuck," Doyle says, then sighs elaborately. "We've got to move again."
"Are you serious?"
"Dude, I can't sit with somebody in front of me!"
-- I just want to say, officially and for the record, that it was Doyle's idea to "cut through the Castro" today on our way downtown. He's also been insisting up and down that we must go to a "real San Francisco bar" tonight. When I asked him what he called the bar we went to the other night, he said, "That was an Irish pub. I mean a real bar."
I think he wants to go to that Men's Room place we saw earlier. Stay tuned.
Diesel's take: Exactly 30 percent of Pepe's post is true. This should not come as a surprise to anyone.
However, I don't see what's so wrong about wanting to go to the Castro. I'm sensitive!