Wow, here we are again. It’s Pub Crawl. It’s Monday. It’s raining. I woke up 35 minutes before I had to be at work. MUNI had yet another clusterfugg that made me yet again very happy that I don’t pay one thin dime to ride that piece of shit. The guy in front of me at Starbucks had never been to a Starbucks before and spent $56 on coffee and bagels for his euro-family who probably thought that finding a hotel in the mid-Market area of San Francisco would be wonderful in much the same way that Clark W. Griswold thought that the family Truckster would be a great way to travel across America. Anyway, the guy buys $56 worth (not really “worth” but that’s what he paid) of junk and the Starbucks guy asks how my day is going and I told him that I was late before I even got out of bed and he went on to do my favorite thing and that is to start his next sentence with an “I” in which he described his hangover and some other stuff that I didn’t listen to since, after all, he didn’t seem to be listening to the fact that I’m late and I need to get to work and I really don’t need to hear about his hangover (at least he had a drink, the fag) and his shitty 20-year-old Starbuck-worker life.
Godfrey’s Pub Crawl, part bar, part radio show, parts unknown. Featuring Meredith, our “Bartender to the Stars” and her gaggle of misfits, malcontents, ne’er do wells, once-functional alcoholics and anyone with testicles (or congruent lady parts) enough to give us a ring. Just like your local tavern, we’ll be talking to- and behind the backs of- interesting people from all crawls of life, all while we pour drinks from our bottomless fountain of genteel indignation. So grab your stool and belly-up ’cause the bar is set, low… REAL low.