Mar/070
The Phone Booth
The Phone Booth in San Francisco is one of my favorite bars. I love this place. I have had many excellent, drunken times here courtesy of their fantastic jukebox, cheap drinks, strong pours and indoor smoking ability. However, bar none, the following charming anecdote is my favorite memory of the Phone Booth.
Let's flash back to 2003, aka the Hot Slut Days. I had spent the entire day drinking and decided it would be a fabulous idea to meet up with this guy I had been emailing with for a while. So I suggest the Phone Booth on a Sunday afternoon. Here I am, reeking of maker's mark, order up some more 3 dollar well drinks, completely empty stomach and proceed to start blabbing and chain smoking. He, of course, is completely charmed by this (and who wouldn't!?) and as the date goes on, he starts telling me about his days as a Production Assistant in LA.
I, being a pop culture ho, am completely fascinated by this, and grill him for more information. Then he drops it on me: He used to PA at BLIND DATE. Yes, the show that even my holier than thou, pretentious as fuck, college radio DJ friends in college would admit to watching. The show that bought us all together in Ironic Hipster Harmony all huddled around the TV at 11pm, cracked out on Adderrall and library coffee, with our Saucony's and genuine Salvation Army tshirts (going to college in the Midwest does have its perks). I was speechless, with no idea how to respond. Blind Date was practically a religion for me for about a year and this mere mortal sitting next to me was actually a part of it? How to explain my awe?
So, I responded the only way a hot slut knows how: I made out with him right there, at the Phone Booth. A little slice of heaven on South Van Ness.