I had a hangover this morning. Do you know how long it has been since I've woken up with a hangover? Years and years. The experience has not significantly improved. And yet I only had two pints of Redhook Ale, I swear it. I had two pints last weekend without the same ill effects, so I blame it on spending three hours in a tiny bar where everyone around me smoked liked fiends. I really think it was the cigarettes that did me in.
At the time I wasn't particularly bothered. I was too busy enjoying myself at Tater's birthday party. I brought Denise because it was being held in our old neighborhood in the lower Haight. When we lived there almost 20 years ago it was more like the lower Fillmore: very black, very creepy after dark, and very downmarket. It's been completely gentrified. Denise and I were shrieking as we walked down the street to Noc Noc's. Of course, this is fairly typical Lucy and Denise behavior, but we were freaking out at how upscale and well-maintained much of it is now. "I know I've lived too long when I see an Irish bar in the lower Haight," Denise sputtered indignantly. I gazed bemusedly at the hip clientele filling up the coffee bars, hair salons, restaurants, and leather goods stores. "Man, we're suburban now," I shot back. No one on that street would probably believe I once sported a mohawk, and got tattoos before Erno moved his shop out here, and met all the cool bands in the 80's. Or maybe they would; you can never tell.
As soon as we walked into Noc Noc's I knew I'd been there before. It's not easy to forget hammered tin countertops and tribal wall paintings combined with Dr. Suess bar chairs and bomb casings hanging from the ceiling. The weird thing is I think, and I could be wrong here because I did as many soft drugs in the 80's as any other San Franciscan, that it used to be this water bar called "The Big Blue Room With One White Light," or "The Big White Room With One Blue Bulb," or something like that. It was incredibly pretentious as you can just imagine. Whatever it was then, it's certainly friendly and funky now.
Brad was brimming with bonhomie, or possibly beer, as he welcomed us and then made us get out of the way so he could finish watching The Simpsons on a little tv set across the room. I gave him a token of my esteem, several certain to be highly collectible Star Wars: Episode 1 cards which filled his soul with delight, I'm pretty sure. He seemed equally pleased by someone else's gift of a clam hand puppet and menaced his guests with it. The highlight was getting his very own Mrs. Potato Head. "Look, I have a date!" he exclaimed, and promptly set about arranging her plastic features. I took some photos of Our Genial Host with my handy digital camera so you, too, can share in the wonder that is a 40 year old Tater.
A man, a clam, a plan . . . Panama!
Note the lipstick on the giant brainpan of the birthday boy.
So we drank beer, and ate cake, and I had a great time chatting to everyone, and then I drove Denise home, and then I drove another 30 miles home, and walked my dog, and smelled so much like a bar that I took a second shower and washed my hair for the second time that day, and fell into bed, and woke up this morning with a hangover.
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