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By J.Ho, December 7, 2008 6:04 pm

Part One … San Francisco is by far the favorite of the vastly geographically separated trinity of metropolitan areas I call home. Last September I left the wicked awesome confines of Boston to embark on a business trip to the City by the Bay. This business trip turned out to be all pleasure.

So my plane lands on an early Saturday afternoon. I was to stay with the JilliBean at her crash pad on Sutter & Jones for a few days and then check into the Grand Hyatt for the remainder of my stay. My post-sortie ingress plan was to take the BART from the airport into downtown San Francisco, meet up with the JilliBean, drop my gear off at her pad and cruise the city. I’m never one for plans anyway.

I get off the BART at the Powell station and the first things I notice are how many more bums were around than usual and the awesome weather. I mean awesome weather. You know, the perfect kind that only San Francisco can provide. The kind of weather that has something for everyone. Warm, sunny and a slight breeze mixed in with extreme cold, wind and gloomy fog. A paradox like no other.

So I step over my quota of bums and call the JilliBean. No answer. I call again. No answer. I call one last time. Beat. Luckily, I had accounted for this contingency in my ingress plan. So I’m on my own in downtown San Francisco for a while, where do I go to kill some time? The Gold Dust Lounge, that’s where!

Where else would you go if you were a busted ass kid like me wandering around the shopping mecca/tourist trap that is Union Square? A bar! Not really a bar, more of a saloon. Near the southwest corner of Geary & Powell, the Gold Dust Lounge is a throwback to the old San Francisco days which existed way before I was probably born. High-back chairs and benches accented with gaudy red velvet padding and model airplane paint gold trim. Totally worn out wood paneling, old smoky mirrors, wicked tarnished brass lamps and cherubs painted (or probably wallpapered) on the ceiling. The second you walk in you’ll notice the smell. It’s a kind of like stale beer, ass, piss and a hint of vomit smell. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. Pssssst … it’s the smell that keeps the tourists out.

If you’re lucky, you can score the table immediately to the left when you walk through the entrance. It’s a small round table that juts out a bit towards the sidewalk behind a semi-circular window with small red velvet padded brass stools. There is no better spot in the city for people-watching while sipping your suds in peace. I walk in and my table was taken. Beat! So I waddle up to the bar with my extremely heavy woodland MARPAT duffel bag, desert MARPAT backpack, Targus laptop bag and Lowepro camera bag. I had that look as if I just traveled 3000 miles and I need a beer! I order a Stella draft with a Wild Turkey on the side. You know, the J.Ho Combo. At last, I’m home.

I score my drinks, sit down and absorb the fact that I’m back in San Francisco wishing it was to stay. I used to sit at the same bar while my former better half and her friends would go shopping in Union Square. I’ve stumbled in and out of cabs while coming and going from this place. I miss it. I never really missed the bathroom though. I give it only one star. I had to go wizzle, so I walk towards the back and hold my breath as I walk in the tiny bathroom. What was the first thing I saw? What was the perfect San Francisco greeting? I had to take a quick picture.

Indeed, I’m home. No town in the world does obscene bathroom wall literature better than San Francisco. Just to the left this shot someone wrote, “Michael Savage for President.” Then someone had crossed out the Michael part and wrote in Dan. This is just a taste of how polarizing the political landscape can be in this fine city. Actually, I believe Michael Savage and Dan Savage are equally irrelevant.

The next fine example of San Francisco bathroom wall literature was one of the most timeliest I’ve ever experienced. See below …

I had to adjust my flash a bit from when I took the first shot. It says, “100 years till the next one! Go home Bostonian! Don’t like home? Women are ugly? Weather is awful? California … priceless!”

Interesting comment. I assumed they were talking about the Red Sox winning another World Series. The funny thing is about six weeks later, the Sox did just that! The rest of the writing is spot on, though. Trust me. I’ve lived both places. Trust me, San Francisco is in no place to say another city has ugly women. We’ll save that topic for another rant.

After several J.Ho Combos and many, many tall tales shared with the bartenders, it was time for me to continue on my travels. I didn’t get to stop by the Gold Dust again during my trip, but the short time to water up and reminisce was all I needed. The two pictures below are a shot of the Gold Dust entrance taken from my hotel room and a picture of the J.Ho Combo.

Check out the Gold Dust if you’re in the area. Live jazz almost every night.

Too be continued …

Yankees suck! Giants too. Both Giants.

Comments (2)

By J.Ho, December 11, 2007 6:35 pm

I love dive bars. Especially cool ones. Not that the Lucky Dog is a dive bar. But it is. Kinda. It’s small and smells like popcorn and stale beer. They have darts, keno, free popcorn, a juke box and a large HD-TV. They only sell beer, booze, smokes, chips, lottery tickets and pizza. You’ll find the occasional biker and/or a guy who thinks his bright colored hot rod is the coolest thing on earth and you should worship him and it. The bartenders are awesome, the guys are chill and the girls are often pretty. Great place to watch a game.

My company hosted our holiday party at the Boston College Club in downtown Boston. Being the smart guy I am I decided to stay at the Langham Hotel so I could party all night and not worry about trying to make it back to the north shore. Before the party I met some friends at the hotel’s Julien Bar & Lounge. The Julien is seriously one of the nicest bar’s I’ve ever seen. I ordered a Ketel One & Cranberry. They gave me a very, very small Ketel One & Cranberry. They charged me $11 too. Not that I’m cheap or anything. I spend a lot of money at bars and restaurants cause I love it. I know what’s good in life. At least I now know what’s good for ME. It took me a while to figure that out. So at the Lucky Dog $10 gets me a pitcher of PBR and a large pizza instead of a tiny, weak cocktail. Yeah baby!

I really love the Lucky Dog. I try to cruise by there on Thursday nights for trivia with my friends. Usually we win. Last night I was coming home for a friend’s house and decided to cruise in there and grab a pizza since it was late and I didn’t have dinner yet. I saw a couple friends, bought them a pitcher of PBR and ordered myself a pepperoni pizza.

The pitcher was gone by the time the pizza arrived. When you order a pitcher for $6 the pizza is only a $4 bolt on. Great! It’s the best $4 pizza you’ll ever have. It’s greasy and cheesy. Just the way it’s supposed to be. I wrestled with the stringy cheese on my first slice for what seemed to be forever. By the time I was done the grease had dissolved through my paper plate. Awesome!

Almost every night there’s the one goon who walks in. You know the one. Most of the time it’s a different person. This one guy walks in with his collar popped up, wearing sunglasses at night. He also probably spent a half hour trying to make his hair stylishly messed up. You know the one. Anyway, he was yelling at his similarly dressed pals and saying he was gonna play the jukebox. But he was saying, “Kid, I’m gonna play the Yooooooooook-box .. Yooooooooook-box .. Yooooooooook-box!!!!” I’m all like CHRIST!!! Here we go again. I knew he was going to play it. I just knew it. I felt a disturbance in the force.

He walks away from the Yoooook-box and, yeah, you guessed it. He played the one song that every asshole plays while I’m there. He played the 18 minute version of Bruce Springsteen’s Kitty’s Back. This happens every freaking night! Some numb nut always plays it. I mean, hey, it’s their buck, play what they want. I can stomach a shit song for 3 minutes or so. Whatever. But to play a shit song that lasts 18 minutes and force the rest of the place to hold in their vomit is just friggin rude.

Seriously, I love the place anyway. Cruise down there. Peace out. Yankees suck!

Lucky Dog — 129 Cabot Street, Beverly, MA