Who had a gay old time in San Francisco this weekend?
I did! I did!
My second time to the city filled with boys who like boys, San Fran did not disappoint. From the charm of Chinatown, to the beauty of the Bay, to screaming down steep hills on the Powell Street trolley, San Francisco is, quite simply, the bees knees.
One thing San Francisco is famous for is Lombard Street. As we wound our way down the cobblestones, past cheery Victorian homes, I heard Angelface say that Lombard is the most crooked street of the world. I think he might be wrong about that –after all, George Bush doesn’t even live in California… but I digress.
Another popular place in San Francisco is the Fisherman’s Wharf. The historic waterfront is home to great seafood, gorgeous views, cheap shopping, and of course, The World Famous Bushman. A street performer, people call the dude The World Famous Bushman because he makes bank scaring the bejesus out of folks, by leaping out from behind bushes. People also probably call him The World Famous Bushman because that’s what he has written in permanent marker on the front of his tip jar.
And that makes me think… I’ve got a sharpie and some Tupperware. Maybe I should set up shop on a street corner too. I could call myself The Incredible BitchAss. Maybe people would toss some shit in my tip jar, and maybe they’d toss some dollar bills in there too.
But anyway, obvious targets in our tourist uniform of discount jackets with SF emblazoned across the chest, the ‘Bushman scared us pretty bad. My sister-in-law who is an ER nurse said “That’d be real funny if he scared someone and they ended up having a heart attack.” I said I agreed, but actually I think that wouldn’t be funny at all. Everyone knows that heart attacks just don’t get the laughs like scaring someone into having herpes does.
One thing about vacationing in California is, you never know when you’re going to see a celebrity. I was pretty sure I saw Mariah Carey down at Pier 39. But actually it was just a fat-ass sea lion – one of about 50 sunning themselves on the docks – which had his flipper raised high, like he was reaching for heaven…or ho hos.
Down at the pier there a ton of cute little shops where you can buy all kinds of crap. Since Angel’s maaa wanted to get a cable car ornament, we stopped somewhere. When we got to the register, Angel kept asking if the ornament qualified as a “model.” I couldn’t figure out why he was repeatedly asking this dumb question, but then I read the sign where his eyes were transfixed: “Buy a model, pull the cord.”
The cord, mounted above the register, was attached to a trolley bell. Even though the ornament didn’t technically qualify, the clerk let Angel pull cord. This is probably because Angel is 25, and most times when someone nearly pees themselves over the pulley, they are 10.

In concluding this travelogue, I would just like to leave you with this thought: Alcatraz: it’s known as “The Rock,” but yet, when I had a look around, I found no evidence of screaming guitars, too-tight hot pants, or boys who wear makeup.
Perhaps we should call it “The Soft Rock” or “The Smooth Jazz” instead.
Discuss.
Til next, dear hannihaus readers, adieu.
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Update B/c you asked for it, here they are: click for my San Fran pics. If you’re bored, Angel’s got some too.