Search and Rescue in San Francisco

Sometimes it can be hard to spot a cry for help, but not on Facebook.

Nevermind, I’ll find, someone like you.

It was the third Adele quote that Frank had posted since Monday. Last week it was Taking Back Sunday, and the week before was Death Cab for Cutie. I mean, it had been over a month since Frank’s girlfriend, Cheri " or The Succubus, as me and the rest of Frank’s friends called her " broke up with him. I knew he was down, but this was getting ridiculous. My newsfeed was starting to resemble one of those self-help books that have a title like, Please Don’t Kill Yourself.  

Frank lived up in San Francisco, away from most of his close friends, but from what I could gather by those that lived by him, it sounded like he was working from home, hadn’t seen the light of day in a month, and was close to drowning in a pool of empty pepperoni hot-pocket cardboard boxes.

Being the great friend that I am, there was only one thing to do. I was going to have to drive to San Francisco myself, abduct Frank from his misery, and show him that there are girls out there that won’t force him to watch Dear John while cutting onions during the “sad” parts so that she wouldn’t have to cry alone.

I recruited a mutual friend, Ace (his real name is Dwight, but he insists Ace sounds cooler. I’m not convinced), to embark on the mission with me, and so we departed. The five-hour drive was quick and it looked like we’d have time to hit the Friday evening happy hour at the bars in San Francisco, but that was until we got to Frank’s. His short-lived joy upon our arrival quickly turned to fear as we proposed an evening out. But after some fairly violent threats " all for the greater good " and practically having to dress him ourselves, we got him out of his apartment, which was beginning to smell like a platter of aged French cheese, and onto the street.

We were going to have to ease into this night, so our first stop was the Burritt Room in the Mystic Hotel, a snazzy spot to catch up on life over some sophisticated drinks. The mixologists took their time crushing all sorts of too-many-syllable ingredients into our cocktails, but I could already tell that the combination of booze and good friends was beginning to bring some life back to Frank.

After two glasses and a nice buzz, Ace suggested we go to MatrixFillmore, which it turns out isn’t named after Keanu Reeves but instead was founded by Marty Balin of Jefferson Airplane in the sixties. Except when we arrived at the upscale bar/nightclub in the Marina, it was obvious that a debonair crowd of well-dressed young professionals and swanky women had long replaced the rockers. This ended up being for the better, as Frank’s eyes moved from scantily dressed gal to the next. How terribly cheesy that it was the Marina district that made Frank realize there are plenty of fish in the sea.

Soon we were all plenty sloshed, and after a visit to the little-boys room I came back to witness, of all things, Frank and Ace taking shots with a group of San Francisco Giants players. Frank’s always been a die-hard Giants fan, so I can only imagine how happy this was making him. Unfortunately, I ruined the good time when I came up and told them that winning the 2010 World Series was a fluke (my Padres blood couldn’t resist), which resulted in us getting kicked out of the bar and Frank cold-shouldering me.

To make it up to him, I took us to our last stop, the Kozy Kar, a purposefully sleazy bar in Nob Hill that has more 1970’s center-fold nude spreads than my Uncle’s old Playboy collection. They’re plastered on the walls and on the bar stools, mixed in with an odd assortment of other collectables. We sat down in one of the booths carved out of an old van, joined in on the raucous atmosphere, and drank till we couldn’t see straight. At one point we were mingling with some attractive city girls, and the next thing I knew, Frank had disappeared with one of them. I later discovered that he ended up making out with her on one of the questionably sanitary waterbeds in the back of the venue.

I don’t think I speak to soon when I say: mission accomplished.

 

Daniel Hogan is a writer at Party Earth - a global media and entertainment company that publishes reviews and listings of the best social experiences around the world including: bars in Paris, pubs in London, beaches in Ibiza, plazas in Rome, parks in New York, festivals and concerts everywhere, and more.