CHRIS WALKER VS. THE LULL OF YOUR LIFE

Wake up, America. And do it soon.

Get out of your boxes. Get out of your comfort zones. Stop relying so heavily on what is easy and familiar because one day you’re going to come out of your contently-bland, cookie-cutter comas, desiring something new – something more – only to discover it’s all been bulldozed and paved over to make way for yet another McDonald’s and Walmart.

It’s funny how you don’t pay attention to a nationwide problem until it’s knocking at your door, staring you in the face, threatening your everyday life. Or, even worse, threatening the enjoyment of your alcoholic intake. I travel to San Francisco. A lot. It’s a home away from home for me. My family has gone to the city for as long as I can remember. Since I moved back to Reno I’ve made it a point to go to San Francisco at least once every couple months – whether it’s to see a concert, a baseball game, a gay parade (I witnessed my first all-male, naked bike ride on the last trip, regrettably) or just to get away for a couple days. When I’m there I always seek out new places, new experiences, however; I do have a couple mandatory stops, one of them being the Rouge Ale’s Public House.

The Rogue Ale’s Public House, on the corner of Union and Powell in Washington Square, is a focal point of alcoholic excellence in San Francisco’s North Beach district (affectionately known as “Little Italy”). Their menu features delicious Chipotle Ale chicken wings, Dungeness crab cakes, Kobe beef chili, an array of salads, and – awesomely enough – simple orders of apple smoked bacon (read: manly). They have 44 ales on tap, all written on a gigantic chalk board, and the bartenders might as well be Sommeliers. Typically, 85% of the taps are occupied by Rogue ales. Made only with premium barley and hops, free range coastal water, and Pacman top fermenting proprietary yeast, Rogue ales are the best tasting ales you can find in the United States. My favorite: the Chipotle Ale.

I say 85% of the taps are typically occupied by Rogue ales because that was not the case last time I went. Instead of the standard two out of three chalkboard columns featuring the names of Rogue ales (with other “specialty” Rogue ales written elsewhere on the board) the Rogue ales had been reduced to one column while the rest of the board consisted of “guest beers”, including such standard fare as Budweiser. Thankfully, their higher alcohol ales, such as the Old Crustacean and Menage Frog, still had place in the upper right hand corner of the board however; there was no Chipotle Ale.

More troubling than the absence of my personal favorite was the presence of a martini menu. That’s right; the Rogue Ale House now serves fu-fu fuck flavored martinis. I remember a time the Ale House was packed and some tasteless prick wanted a girly, mixed drink. The bartender told the waiter who placed the order, “I don’t even have the stuff to make that.” The waiter came back a minute later asking for a different, yet equally inappropriate, drink. This time the bartender just threw a couple ingredients together, poured in some liquor, shook it up, and called it what the guy ordered. I can think of another time Fanlo, Dong Wang, and I were berated just for ordering water with our beers (in good fun, of course). And now any asshole with zero respect for the craftsmanship required to brew delicious, liquid artistry can waltz into the Rogue Ale House and order a “Cosmo”? I’m sure somewhere in Oregon John C. Maier – Rogue Brewmaster – is sharpening his knives and cleaning his gun.

For the first time since I’d started going to the Rouge Ale House I felt uncomfortable. Then sadness and finally fear. I asked the bartender, Ryan, what he thought of all the guest taps. He feigned enthusiasm, saying they were good because they added variety and gave him a chance to have something other than Rogue. It sounded like he said, “I have filet mignon so often I just felt like eating a giant pile of shit today.” This was coming from the same bartender who once explained to me differences in India Pale Ales and the intricacies of the ‘barley wine’ brewing process. I glanced over at the spot on the chalkboard that read, “Bud Light on Tap!” and knew he was lying.

Of course, it isn’t his fault, or even the manager’s fault, they’ve started pushing Budweiser and martinis in order to lure business. It’s your fault, average American. The blame falls on you and your unwillingness to expand horizons or imagine drinking a beer can actually be more than just drinking a beer – instead becoming an experience, a privilege to indulge in the fruits, the flavors, of a Brewmaster’s dedicated, brilliant, time-honored craft. Enjoying a well-made beer is no different than eating delicacies from fine restaurant. Not to mention, it costs less (usually) and you don’t have to throw on a blazer to enjoy it – which probably makes it more appealing. And it’ll get you drunk!

I alluded to this idle complacency, this aversion to new experiences, a nationwide problem because it goes beyond the Rogue Ale House having to whore itself out to make sure it’s employees get paid and a Bennigan’s doesn’t take its place (not that I think North Beach would ever allow that). This is just when it hit home for me: watching my Miss America of Ale, my Playmate of Alcoholic Excellence, reduce herself to Girls Gone Wild level because the average idiot doesn’t respect nor appreciate quality ale. The problem expands to record stores, book shops, markets, and restaurants. If you’ve ever had the opportunity to try unique, foreign cuisine and said something like, “I don’t want to eat something weird; I want to go somewhere where I know what I like and know what to expect,” you are the problem, as well. And truly, it saddens me to think of the bloated umpa-lumpas who balk at trying the subtle wonder of spring rolls at a restaurant like Café De Thai yet gleefully cram their faces with oversized portions of French fries and 6,000 calorie burgers at Claim Jumper. Just like I’m appalled by people who would walk into the Rouge Ale House and order a “Mandarin Orange Martini” instead of the Honey Cream Ale.

So wake up, America. And do it soon.

Try something new. Try something real, authentic, innovative, imaginative, delicious. Do it, and do it often before everything becomes a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy. Pull yourself out of your rut; deviate from your sub-standard routine. Get out of the McDonald’s drive thru and into the kitchen – or at least into a family owned restaurant run by real people who use fresh ingredients and use fire to cook as opposed to a heat lamp. Stay out of Walmart. Go to the locally owned liquor store and try a chocolate stout from a small company you’ve never heard of before, let it reach close to room temperature and enjoy its complex flavors. Bypass the Taco Bell and try the Taqueria where real Mexicans who know what real Mexican food is will serve you something more delicious, and perhaps less expensive, than you would have ever imagined. Check out the Rogue Ale House and order a beer, just so long as it’s Rogue. And for god’s sake, lose some fucking weight.

For the record: Budweiser and martinis aren’t “evil concoctions” and I’m not saying I’m totally against them – but I wouldn’t dream of ordering either at the Rogue Ale House. You go to the Rogue for Rogue like you go to an Irish pub for Guinness or Boddingtons, or a mixture of the two. If you don’t want Rogue go somewhere else. Or develop better taste.

CHRIS WALKER VS. WHERE THE STREETS HAVE NO NAME

You never appreciate the fine line between ‘charming and rustic’ and “Fuck, this is some third world shit,” until you’re actually standing there, saying to yourself, “Fuck, this is some third world shit.” I learned to appreciate the line last Monday after Nacho, my Mexican Distributor, and I arrived in Panama City, Panama.

Looking out the window as we landed, Panama appeared gorgeous. Surrounded by ocean, there were lush, green forests, dark blue rivers running through them – it was paradise. Then we got off the plane, through the airport, and into the city. Not exactly paradise. Imagine a place that got the life bombed out of it 50 years ago and they just now kinda, sorta, got around to half-assing the rebuilding process. That’s Panama.

To clarify, places like Moltrasio or Bellagio, Italy are charming and rustic. Parts of Guadalajara, Mexico are charming and rustic. They have culture, rich history, and (most importantly) incredible, and often times simple, food. Panama is not charming. Nor is it rustic. It’s poverty’s tiara-wearing, slut of a prom queen; the role model all other crime infested, disease ridden dens of filth and debauchery aspire to emulate. Or, it’s a perfect example of what happens after America occupies you for a hundred years and then leaves. Take note, Iraq. Not that you were much of an ideal vacation stop beforehand.

Before you start thinking “Walker’s just being a spoiled snob,” understand my travels have taken me to some rural places. I’ve peeled apart shrimp under cover of a pink tarp in middle-of-nowhere, Singapore; I’ve eaten off banana leaves with locals in Thailand; I’ve stomached down fish eyeballs, animal intestine, and boiled chicken feet in mainland China; I’ve even mowed down traditional tacos in the parts of Cancun where people actually live. And I’ve loved every minute of it. If there was cold beer and interesting people to trade stories with I’d hang out in a coal mine for a while. I really don’t care.

“Rebel chef” Anthony Bourdain said it perfectly, the Big Boss has a variation of it, and I’ll say it now: the best, and perhaps only, way to fully understand a culture is to eat what the locals eat and drink what the locals drink. That is why Panama lacks appeal, there is no culture. Their national food is Bennigan’s and Dunkin’ Doughnuts. Seriously, they’re building another Bennigan’s and ten more Dunkin’ Doughnuts as you read this. During my week-long trip to Panama I ate at a Hard Rock Café, a T.G.I.Fridays, a Tony Roma’s, had drinks at Hooters, and the list of deplorable American fare continues. Nothing authentic, nothing to challenge my palette; it was so miserably American by the end of the trip Nacho, my Mexican Distributor, and I ate potato chips with lime and Tabasco and drank Brandy and Coke in their hotel room for dinner. I’m not even kidding.

One of the trip’s finest moments was when my Mexican Distributor and I went to visit potential customers. A hotel cab driver (not from our hotel as our hotel didn’t have a taxi service) was willing to wait for us while we were in meetings. As we traveled from customer to customer the landscape changed from sketchy, to bad, to if this cab breaks down we’re all going to die. After we’d left the worst area (the pictures below do not do justice) the cab driver told us if we weren’t so close to where we were in the first place he would’ve never taken us there. The hotel won’t allow him to take guests as far out as we were. It’s probably one of the most dangerous parts of Panama. Great to know.

Not pictured above are the guys shooting dice and dealing drugs I was afraid to photograph as they glared at us, passing through their neighborhood. I’m telling you, after traveling to Panama I’m willing to visit customers anywhere; how much worse could it be?

Speaking of taxis, Panama has about five street signs, seven stop lights, and virtually no stop signs. Traffic is a certified free-for-all. If you’re a middle-aged, overweight, stay-at-home, mother-of-
miserable-future-America who merges onto a 65 mile per hour highway going 45 MPH and gets upset when you ‘feel’ someone has either cut you off or tailgated you – shut the fuck up. Get out of the McDonald’s drive-thru and visit a third world country; you have absolutely no clue. And for the record, I’m willing to bet not one single Panamanian knows how to use a turn single. They all know how to use the car horn, however.

If you’ve read this far you might be sitting there thinking, “Gosh Chris, don’t you have anything positive to say about Panama; isn’t there anything fun to do?” To which I would respond, yes, I do have something positive to say: Panama is a fantastic place to leave. Wherever you are going from there will seem like Disney Land. And if it is Disney Land, well, you might as well be going to heaven. As for fun things to do in Panama, there are two: 01.) drink excessively; 02.) pay for a happy ending massage from a girl who will presumably leave you with the full-blown AIDS. Oh yeah, you can also visit one of Panama’s national landmarks (see: a shopping mall or Bennigan’s) or gamble but you can also do that in Las Vegas – or an Indian colony – and in Vegas you can actually touch surfaces without feeling like your skin is going to rot off. Kind of.

“But what about the Panama Canal?” you say. “It’s one of the Seven Wonders of the World!” Here’s what the Panama Canal looks like:

Epic, granted, but once you realize you actually have to go to Panama to see this thing – loses all appeal. Actually seeing the things you learned about in seventh grade history class is not all that awesome. Kind of like when the chick you lusted after in high school turns into a sloppy, chunky, mega whore and you go, “Wow, in retrospect, glad I dodged that bullet.” Do yourself a favor and check it off your list NOW.

Speaking of whores, I will say this: if you love paying for sex Panama is the city for you. It’s everywhere and all the locals do it – which also makes it so disgusting. It’s like, “Hey guys, I feel like getting the AIDS tonight! Again!” One of the customers we visited even goes so far as to carry condoms in the ashtray of his car. And although I’m sure sitting down to drink and swap tales with him would be amazing I couldn’t help from thinking “Fuck me, I shook this guy’s hand?” I seriously don’t know how they let anyone back in the country after going to Panama. Where are you on that one, Homeland Security?

Maybe this sounds like a bunch of bitching. I call it observation. I think the pictures alone would make you think, “Wow, totally looks like a place I don’t want to go to.” If I wasn’t with great friends who are hilarious and love to drink I probably would’ve thrown myself out my hotel window (which I often thought about). Drinking is the only fun thing to do in Panama that doesn’t involve living with the full-blown AIDS afterwards. Luckily for us, we are all exceptional drinkers. Check out what we did in just two nights:

And that doesn’t even count all the beer, Sangria, wine, and other shit we drank at lunch…and breakfast…and well, anywhere we happened to be. My tolerance is so high right now I can drink an entire bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label and still be straight as an arrow. Sounds like I’m ready for St. Patrick’s Day.

Cheers.

CHRIS WALKER VS. LAST CALL WITH MSTRKRFT

San Francisco is a strange town when you try to pull a “club night” like Fanlo, Dong Wang, and I did last Friday. Typically, nights in the city end up like our Saturday did: head out for drinks around 6:00 PM and stumble from the Rogue Ale House back to the Holiday Inn around 12:00 AM. Pretty straightforward. Such was not the case for the MSTRKRFT show at SF nightclub Ruby Skye.

MSTRKRFT’s set was supposed to start at 8:00 PM. Odd, I thought, since it was an electronic show at a night club – which are known to go into all hours of the morning – however; SF venues stop serving alcohol at approximately 1:30 AM so I was willing to believe. Imagine my surprise when our taxi pulled up to Ruby Skye at 8:30 PM and the place was dead. Something foul was afoot but no worries. Since MSTRKRFT obviously didn’t start at 8:00 PM we’d just head down to John Foley’s Irish House for whiskey and pints of Guinness.

One Guinness deep and I was feeling it. I’d just come off a no-drinking, barely-eating stint (from the “Tomorrow Is Christmas” bulletin I posted on MySpace) so my tolerance was low. Even cigarette smoke was giving me a buzz. It made me realize two things: 01.) detoxifying your body of alcohol, tobacco, and high-sodium, high calorie foods – even for a just week – will cleanse the shit out of it; 02.) how the fuck was I supposed to survive an upcoming week of spicy food and tequila in Guadalajara and Panama with my Mexican Distributor? Regardless of my weakened abilities, I stomached through a pint, happily. Dong Wang partook in a pint as well and Fanlo, lover off all things whiskey, had a whiskey.

Side note: I’ve started doing this to friends for the sake of cruel humor and I recommend you do the same: when you’re buying a round and ask a friend, “What do you want to drink?” and they reply, “I don’t know, whatever,” tell the bartender, “My friend would like the gayest drink on the menu.” Furthermore, if you know your friend’s poison – for instance, Chuck loves whiskey – when you ask them what kind they want and they reply, “Whatever,” tell the bartender you want the shittiest whiskey he has. Hilarity and hard feelings will ensue, I promise. It’s great.

Anyway, since I was a being a pussy and Dong Wang was still ravaged from his Thursday night shenanigans, we shared a second pint; Chuck had one more shot of low-end whiskey. We headed back to Ruby Skye at 9:15 PM.

Still fucking dead.

Concern set in. I went into the club to find out what was going on; the receptionist told us our VIP booth hadn’t even been set up and Digweed wouldn’t go on until midnight or later. I told her I didn’t care about Digweed, my primary concern (and reason I was trying to start a night out so early) was not missing MTRKRFT. Another employee came over and said, “Yeah, he probably won’t start until 10:00 PM or 11:00 PM.” He? It became apparent no one working the club knew who MSTRKRFT is – or that MSTRKRFT is comprised of two people. They just kept talking about Digweed.

Since MSTRKRFT wasn’t going on until 10:00 PM, at earliest, we decided to kill time at another of my favorite SF watering holes: the Irish Bank. There we ate dinner (to put something other than booze in our stomachs); Chuck had a shot of whiskey and I drank a quarter of a Black and Tan. Dong Wang drank malt vinegar out of a shot glass. We were all fighting ‘The Drunk’; we didn’t want to be shit-faced for the show but the longer we had to wait the more we inevitably drank. And it was getting painful. Finally, around 10:15 PM, we walked slowly back to Ruby Skye. Rounding the corner I noticed a swarm of people waiting outside the club. Thank God.

I was on the guest list so we got in immediately (thanks, Torr!) and were escorted up to our VIP booth on the second floor. It was bad ass. Not so much the club experience itself but the VIP booth, rather. It’s the only way I’ll go to club from now on. No dealing with crowds of metrosexual douchebags or chicks with glitter on their chests (c’mon ladies, quit bedazzling yourselves), just whisked into our private area with a good-looking hostess, a bottle of Skyy vodka (yes, in VIP where you get up to a $200 bottle of alcohol I opted for Skyy. What can I say? I’m a traditionalist), and a shit load of Red Bull. It was like heaven – only it had a techno soundtrack.

By the time we got settled and served it was a little after 10:35 PM or so. I poured myself a Vodka-Red Bull and posted up on the railing, overlooking the first floor. Glancing down, I noticed the club resembled a sausage factory. The second level was the same – a wall-to-wall manwich. Like a ten dude to one chick ratio, no joke. It was horrible however; it was early. I figured girls would show up later, they have to – it’s an electronic show, they love that shit. There’d be a bevy to invite into the booth in no time. Never happened. The ratio continued and by the time the show was in full swing it was a certified cocktropolis. It’s San Francisco, what did I honestly expect?

I resorted to hitting on our hostess, which was a horrible decision. 01.) She probably gets hit on EVERY night, I was just another guy in a chain of, “appease him until he gives me a huge tip and goes away,”; 02.) she had a boyfriend and wore a ring on her married finger (although, she said she wasn’t married); 03.) to reiterate: she probably gets hit on EVERY night. To her credit, our hostess was a pro. She treated us like gold and even did the touchy feely shit they taught me in Communications classes which ensures you a better tip. Of course, I recognized it, knew she was just doing her job but, at the same time, appreciated it. If it wasn’t for her there would’ve seriously been no one good to look at.

At one point, Chuck and I stepped outside the club for some fresh air and started talking to a random chick. I told random chick how Ruby Skye was dude-a-poloza and she said, “You should come next door. There’s no cover, just a bunch of hot chicks and no guys.” I knew random chick was telling the truth because all the guys were with us in Ruby Skye. Random chick had introduced us to the promised land and, I tell you what, if it wasn’t for that $200 bottle of Skyy vodka upstairs we would have gone – right then and there. Alas, we had priorities.

Notice all the dudes…

MSTRKRFT played a pretty awesome set, overall. They did great live remixes of “Street Justice” and “Work on You”. I wished they would’ve played more of their remixes (like the Wolfmother and Bloc Party ones; they did play their Metric remix near the end of their set) but what can you do? It still sounded good. During and afterward, Chuck told me the way we did the show – VIP – was the only way to do it. If we hadn’t he would have wanted to leave hours prior. I couldn’t agree more and I’ll say it right now: electronic shows suck unless you’re in VIP. It would’ve been one thing to see Death From Above 1979 (JFK of MSTRKRFT’s last band) live, front-of-stage, but to see MSTRKRFT: two scruffy dudes standing behind turntables, pumping their fists? If you aren’t VIP with a bottle of vodka, there’s no reason to go. You can only enjoy the “live quality of electronic music” so much before it’s like, fuck this let’s do something else. Half the time I can make better mixes at my house. And you don’t have to pay $10 a drink there.

Here’s where ‘club night’ in SF gets strange. Around 1:00 AM MSTRKRFT finished their set and seamlessly transition everything over to Digweed. That was cool however; as soon as Digweed started spinning a big, stylized “Last Call” appeared on the monitor behind the stage – pulsing to the beat of the music. I figured all right, whatever, expected but maybe they won’t rush us since we’re in VIP and paid so much for this fucking bottle. Not the case. Suddenly, a cleaning crew came out of the woodwork – repelling from the ceiling, coming out of secret compartments in the floor – running around; grabbing drinks, and wiping shit down. We probably had less than a quarter left in our bottle of Skyy when a waiter came by, started grabbing glasses, and said, “You’ve got to finish that,” referring to my drink. Then he reached for the Skyy bottle. I was like, “Wow, wow, wow, we’ll finish that just give us a minute.” “You’ve got to have it done by the time I get back,” he replied.

Was this guy fucking serious? Yes. I did my best to rally the troops but it quickly became a fruitless effort. Dong Wang had completely stopped drinking by this point because he was still so messed up from the night before so it was up to Fanlo and me to finish the job. Fanlo said he was done because he felt bad, too, so the task was mine and mine alone. Mustering up all my manlihood, I poured the rest of the bottle into a glass, topped it with cranberry juice, and took a big sip. Bad call. I immediately spit back into glass, put it down, and said, “Fuck it, I’m done. There’s no way.” Drinking vodka on a timer had no appeal; Digweed was spinning whatever the fuck he spins; the club was a cock fest. Ruby Skye had nothing left to offer us – it was time to leave. On the way out I thought we could at least stop by the place with all the single girls in it but that idea was quickly shot down. So, we stopped by our late night pizza place (I don’t know the name of) so Chuck could get a slice of ‘za; we got harassed by a bum; Dong Wang watched a drunk guy puke behind me (see below), and I almost-kinda-barely thought about getting into a fight with this preppy, bean-pole who thought I was talking to him when I called Dong Wang “Lactose Boy (i.e. Dong Wang is lactose intolerant).”

What I don’t understand about San Francisco night clubs is how they expect everyone to start their night around 10:30 – 11:00 PM (which is standard in a 24 hour town like Las Vegas) and then expect them to stop drinking at 1:30 PM. We’re talking about a city where more people take taxis than drive when they go out. It just makes no sense to me.

In the case of the MSTRKRFT show, you’re telling me I have two and half hours to drink – three tops – and then you want to cut me off but still want me to hang out and what, listen to techno and drink water? That’s just fucking stupid; no one listens to techno (or Digweed) sober and I don’t do hard, club drunks like Ecstasy. What are you trying to do SF, promote me to do hard drugs since I can’t drink? What bugs me the most is the bottle service situation. It’s not like I can pre-drink that bottle before I get there. And you’re charging me $200 for it – I have every intention of finishing that fucking thing.

I guess I’ll never understand some things. All I know is Digweed – the show’s headliner – was still playing by the time we caught a cab back to our hotel and went to sleep. And anyone dumb enough to hang around was just…standing there…watching a guy behind a booth and not drinking. That visual pains me. What a bunch of losers.