Zachary Ritter

The ever-unfolding realization that no matter how jaded I feel, there’s always more of San Francisco to discover. Using my Party Earth cred to suavely/awkwardly cadge free drinks out of bartenders.

You might think that you’re above karaoke, but a few hours at The Mint will drag you right down to its level. When I initially walked into the joint, it was 8:00 and I was all business. Sure, I wanted to get a feel for the place, but there was no way I was getting in line for the stage – the DJ was too snarky and the other performers were crazy enthused. Ultimately, I can’t really claim it was the booze that wore me down, but whatever happened, by 10:30 I was throwing myself body and soul into Meat Loaf’s Bat Out of Hell. There’s still a video of that performance out there somewhere, and I’ll pay cash money to anyone who can send me a copy so that it can be destroyed.

I have sort of a Jekyll/Hyde thing going on with Jonah and Lucas. Sure, I’ve got an abiding affection for quirky little joints with weird jukeboxes and oceans of flannel-clad patrons, but there’s a definite part of me that just wants to pound shots and rage.

After recovering from the previous night’s revels, I start on Haight Street at around noon, hopping from bookstore to headshop to café. The back half of the afternoon is spent basking in Golden Gate Park. Once twilight hits I start making my way toward the Mission district, and after grabbing some Mexican food, I begin a bar crawl that will last until 2am. Rinse and repeat until physically or fiscally impossible.