We rang in the New Year at a club on Sixth Street this year. It's nice to know that despite rumors of gentrification, the Sixth Street corridor retains its distinctive charm. For instance, in the rest of San Francisco, an ATM is a machine you put your card into and it dispenses cash. On Sixth Street, an ATM is a guy in a liquor store who takes you card, disappears in the back for a few minutes and then returns with two greasy twenties (even though I wanted $60).
The nightclub itself (Club Six) was pretty fun -- though I'm concerned about the prevalence of live "electronica"-type bands. What's the point in having a live band if they're just going to play techno, damn it! Can't a brother get a little Pure Prairie League in the hizzouse?
In the spirit of "class," I had my brother smuggle in little bottles of liquor (thank you, Santa, for including these in our stockings this year). I became a little concerned when he got an airport-style patdown from one of the security guys (with cupping?). Fortunately, mini-Jose Cuervos are not gun-shaped, and they let him through. However, the night went downhill later when Kelly and I could not locate each other for the midnight kiss, and I had to make out with a Malay bathroom attendant. (Ok, just kidding about that last part -- I was seeing if anyone read this far.)
We did get into a tussle later with a guy who wanted money for "equipment" for the "struggle." Apparently Max was not sufficiently earnest in his responses to the man, because he then proceeded to shove Max repeatedly into traffic. This is what you have to resort to when you have no equipment!