We had one short day to take in as much of San Francisco as possible. But before that happened we needed to drop our bags off with the concierge, return the RV, and take the BART system into the city. The guy who analyzed the RV when we returned it didnt notice the bent generator pipe, courtesy of Brickface. Nor did he notice the scratched-up hub cap, courtesy of yours truly. So we rejoiced in splendor as we rid ourselves of the awful, yet special RV and rolled into San Francisco.

We got into the city around noon and had to leave around 4:30 to catch our flight to vegas. Geoffrey knew of this place, Mama’s, that supposedly had the best brunch in town. Lucky for us, it was only 1.2 miles away. So Bobby took an uber there and the rest of us strolled. The wait for a table was only an hour and then the ordering and consumption of food was another quick hour. So when Mama’s was all said and done, it was 3 o’ clock and we had a cool 90 minutes to take in San Francisco. I’ve always heard San Fran has about 30-minutes-worth of sightseeing so I knew we would be fine. Our end goal was to check out Ghirardelli Square and see the curvy Lombard Street along the way.

Whoever it was that planned and built a major metropolis on the most mountainous terrain imaginable is a total dick. Every street has a 40% incline and it was truly Bobby’s worst nightmare. I heard that when someone goes into the San Francisco hospital with a fractured ankle, they shoot you in the face. Because you have a much better chance of making it all the way up to heaven then up Lombard Street with crutches. The walk became so grueling that I traded my backpack for a Bobby and piggybacked him through the tougher streets of the city.

I was very sweaty. We made it to Ghirardelli Square and I treated myself to a water because I wanted to live a few more hours. The square is right by the Bay so we took the stereotypical Golden Gate pic of course:

Our 90 minutes were almost up so naturally Brickface hustled to Fisherman’s Wharf and inserted his face into a bread bowl of clam chowder while we scrambled to find an uber to take us to the airport.

We had to get picked up in two separate ubers. When ZZTop and I started talking to the uber driver, he mentioned that the absolute worst day for traffic in San Francisco during any given week is Thursday. And that the worst time of day on any given day is 5 o’clock. So our 5 o’ clock uber on Thursday came out to just under $100. At least we made it to the plane and were Vegas-ready.

Grandpa Bob needed a wheelchair at the airport:

So here’s the deal: We had tickets to a Dillon Francis pool party at the Wynn. Our friend Jiten included us on his table but he wasn’t sure how much he would be able to help with our admission. We needed to be at the club, drunk, and in bathing suits before 11 at the very latest. The issue was that our flight was set to land at 9:22 so every second counted.

9:23 -> Plane landed. I’m going to talk to United about the delay later.
9:34 -> Got off plane.
9:43 -> Retrieved bags from our baggage claim that was situated in another terminal that could be accessed via tram.
9:45 -> Jumped into cab
10:01 -> Arrived at the Signature at the MGM Grand
10:01 -> Grabbed front desk lady by shoulders and asked where I might find the nearest venue that would sell me a bottle of liquor
10:01 -> Began 0.2 mile run to gift shop
10:02 -> Gift shop closed
10:03 -> Asked bartender at nearby bar if they would sell me an entire bottle. He responded by reaching for a bottle of 18-year MacCallan and pouring the slowest pour I’ve ever seen for the coked out grandfather next to me. And then smugly announced to me that they don’t sell liquor bottles.
10:10 -> Finished another 0.8 miles of frantically running through the halls to the MGM, found a gift shop, and purchased a fifth of Jagermeister for $56.
10:10 -> Took a breath.
10:10 -> Repeated 1.0 mile run back to the hotel room, but this time chugging Jaeger while doing so
10:18 -> Burp-vomited in elevator
10:19 -> Made it into hotel room. Removed clothes and put on appropriate swimswear. Drank Jager.
10:27 -> Jumped into cab with Roach, Brickface, and ZZTop.
10:45 -> Arrived at the Wynn. Completed the consumption of the fifth of Jager.
10:46 -> Burp-vomited.
10:59 -> Arrived in line at the Encore beach club. Feeling buzzed, feeling accomplished.

For those of you who don’t know Jiten, he takes friendship very seriously and I love him for it. If you ask him to kill a baby, he’s the kind of guy who will do it in a heartbeat, just because you asked. He doesn’t care that the mom really loves that baby, or that its super cute, or that it may grown up to be the next L. Ron Hubbard. All he cares about is that you want that baby dead and he’ll do anything for a friend.

So when we got in the general admission line, he met us with great swiftness and put us in the line for people with cabanas. Somehow our new, privileged line moved slower than the original line. But whatever. Everyone saw that we had a cabana, wanted to be us, and knew they would have to settle for being poor for the rest of their lives.

The pool party was stupid. I don’t mean stupid in a bad way, I mean “stupid” in the sense that it is absolutely ridiculous that such a setting is allowed to exist on our planet. There were three distinct pools, heated to what felt like your exact body temperature, with stripper poles in the middle of the main pool. There were plenty of duck floaties and plenty of long islands.

So I’m j-chilling there, enjoying the big ducks and the dope beats and the warm water. I notice a nice, respectful fella and gal having sex next to me. The guy had his back to me and the girl was facing me. I was so surprised that I didn’t know what to do but watch. I looked the girl right in the eyes and she stared back in mine and we had a wordless, meaningful conversation. Just stares. As she orgasmed, I wondered if this meant she was on my short list now. I also wondered what the lifeguards were doing, how far semen can travel in a chlorinated pool, and whether I should pay $20 for another long island. I said yes to the last inquiry.

Great night, great fun, great cabana. Word on the street is that Camo Dave got real drunk, lost a couple hundred dollars in craps, and then ate food off of his neighbor’s used room service tray. We headed back to the hotel on the earlier side because we had a big day planned tomorrow. The cab driver sang to himself the entire way back. He must have charged extra for his performance because the cab fare was ludicrous. I snuggled into my majestic bed situated in our 1500-square-foot penthouse suite and did not miss the RV one bit. Maybe I will one day, but not this day. Tomorrow is a big one: Drai’s beach party by day, Porter Robinson show by night. We’ll see what happens.