All's fair in love and wharf

At the rodeo, Skot Land heard about the night that Shilpa and I bailed on an unfun party in the South Bay and entertained ourselves by pouring whore's coffees and touring Fisherman's Wharf and making scenes in front of tourists.

He wanted in.

So we scheduled a Fisherman's Wharf night with Skot last Friday. His partner David was able to join us at the last minute.

Being a work day, we got a late start in the evening and didn't head out until around 8:30. We also needed a "running start" (what we call pre-drinking) before hitting the docks. Conjuring a cool joint between SoMa and Fisherman's Wharf, I thought of Ginger's Trois, which I had heard had once again re-opened.

I loved Ginger's Trois. But now it has been reborn as just "Ginger's" and has none of the character of the original. Gone are the mismatched design themes, which can best be described as the Dark Disco episode of The Love Boat, guest starring Tom of Finland.

Yeah. Kinda effed up. And therefore, lots of fun.

It's a little too square now. It's trying to be cool in an black walled, warm lights and light jazz sort of way. And way too straight.

But the bar is well stocked and the bartender tonight was young and overdosed on the pretty.

(It's not that great a shot, but trust me. Hot otter.)

I was beginning to regret bringing my crew here, I have an urban alternative reputation to uphold, when the next crew entered with flair: a birthday party of fun gay men in their 40s and 50s decked out as Pimps and Hos, complete with bearded, muscled, furry men in drag, spandex, 70s afros, and thank God feathers.

Nothing sells a 70's ho drag costume like spandex trimmed with feathers.

I'm just sayin'.

I tried to take a surreptitious photo through the mirror at the bar...

But later, of course, we became friends.

These guys were much fun. I sorted of bonded with Billy, the boy on the right below, who was marvelously entertaining.

His friend in the black dress was very proud of his outfit even though he looked like a pirate (Which I was strictly forbidden to mention above a whisper.). Her name was "Celestial Seasons." I renamed her "Incestual Seasons" which somehow seemed more apt.

When we left, Billy was in the bathroom. As I said goodbye to the pimps and hos, I said, "Tell Billy I said 'Don't be a hero!'"

Woosh. Right over their heads.

Some final words on leaving the new Ginger's: It's not finished yet, and a non-random sample has found that the patrons aren't fans of the new look. The back areas is smaller, and they've walled over one of the bathrooms. The bathroom that is there is unfinished. It has a paper towel dispenser, but the industrial roll of towels is sitting atop it. There is no wastebasket, so the floor is littered with rough-torn towels. And the floor isn't covered yet-- it's just plywood.

With loose features. That did add a festive feel to the under construction bathroom.

The door didn't latch properly either. So I snapped this pic of the fit an furry bartender for a special friend of mine.

You know who you are.

Shilpa made the good point that we were probably too late to have a good tourist night. Last time we started late afternoon/early evening on a Saturday. Nine o'clock on a Friday was a bit late to go to the Wharf because the tourists "will be going to bed. They have a big day tomorrow! Coit Tower by 7:30, Alcatraz reservations. They'll be tucking in soon."

It was true, but the time we got to the Wharf most of the shops had closed and the tourist crowd had thinned considerably. However, the remaining population did not disappoint, and we had ample samples of pretty farm boys to ogle, tacky couples to mock, tragic, haggard chain smokers to cringe at, 80's/eurofashions to amuse, and closet cases to eye f'ck as they held hands with their girlfriends.

And Shilpa looked good shaking what her mama gave her. We were happy if not warm strollers with our whore's coffees. Skot and David bought San Francisco tourist hoodies-- popular with the visitors who do not expect it to be 55 degrees in California in August.

There weren't that many photo opportunities, except for the obvious and silly. And Shilpa has several from our foraging in the Rainforest Cafe. I'll link to her photos when she uploads them.

There was this kid of a street artist with a baby mohawk.

Sadly, it looked more like a skid mark.

As long as we were playing cheesy tourists, we thought the most appropriate place to get a bite to eat and watch some of the Olympics would be: Hooters.


Shilpa but those bitches to shame.

And way to go Matthew Mitcham!! That was awesome to see.

The best part of the night was the finale: We ended up at the Cinch on Polk Street. It was a Playboy Bunny-themed night (not sure what was the tie-in), and the hostess was talented.

The first number we walked in on though, was beyond tragic and into scary and shameful.

She was just old, hairy, not made up, and had no act. It was basically a man in a corset and panties lip-syncing to a bad ballad. He had some sort of panty hose under his panties, but the top of which was below the hip line and it just kept pulling it crotch down lower and lower. Her act could not be over soon enough.

But a few numbers later, we were rewarded for our patience. I did not get her name, but her act was FIERCE.

She was hilarious. She lip synced to a recording of herself singing her own version of Oleta Adams' Get Here If You Can. Enjoying a late night a good performance drag at the Cinch brought on deep pangs of missing Barney. I didn't think to record the number until the second verse, but I managed to get a couple of minutes of the song.

Audio is very much NSFW.



That pretty much capped the night, and we did not seek to improve the evening for fear of disappointment...other than hot, fresh donuts at Bob's.