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“How To Dine & Dash” — The Movie

Due to the popularity of a blog I wrote last year called: “The Illustrated Guide On How To Dine & Dash,” I made a short film. So now you don’t have to read all those long and complicated words.

Click the image below. Enjoy!

                                      How To Dine & Dash

Feel free to comment and share the video, or hey, you know, you can donate to The Bay Area Brit too if you want. That wouldn’t suck.

Sincerely,

Your Bay Area Brit

xxxxx

 

Happy 75th Birthday, Golden Gate Bridge xxxx

     Without a doubt, the highlight of my first visit to San Francisco was seeing (and then crossing) the Golden Gate Bridge. As famous architectural icons go, it stands with the Taj Mahal, The Empire State Building, The Statue of Liberty, The Eiffel Tower, and Sydney Opera House.

     Not only that, the Golden Gate Bridge is an authentic color blindness test. You see, I could have sworn that the Golden Gate Bridge was red. In every photograph of it, scene in a movie, or opening TV credits of a San Francisco based sit-com or drama, the Golden Gate Bridge looks red to me…but no, it is apparently orange.

A pot of Golden Gate Bridge sits at the end of this rainbow.

Read the rest of this story and more in “More Inappropriate Behavio(u)r” Coming in 2020.

Eclipse Schmeclipse

So I was going to check out the solar eclipse yesterday afternoon, but you know I was in a bar at a show in a windowless venue, and this solar eclipse nonsense was happening, and it was like ALL the way outside.

“I suppose I’d better go and check it out,” I said to no one in particular, and I started to get up off of my seat to go, but right at that very moment, my attention span was distracted by a song, or was it a pretty girl, or maybe it was just those floaty things that move around under the surface of your eyeballs when you’re not really looking anywhere. Either way, I missed the eclipse because of a combination of laziness and a terrible attention span.

It all started at a young age, the teacher would be prattling on about what causes a solar eclipse and what Isaac Newton, Britain’s most famous astronomer, wrote about them, and I’d be thinking about a song, or a pretty girl, or mentally chasing those floaty things under my eyeballs. Or maybe my mind would just go off on an unexplainable one minute tangent.

Sir Isaac Newton

 

Read the rest of this story and more in “More Inappropriate Behavio(u)r” Coming in 2020.

Strip Off! It’s World Naked Gardening Day

     There are things you learn on this journey of life that make you say to yourself. “Wow. That can’t be right.” For example: Today is “World Naked Gardening Day.”

I know. It must be some sort of typo, right?

    Pretty odd, but a less disturbing celebration than, “World Naked Iron Girder Welding Day” and arguably a more popular event than, “World Naked Slithering Over Shards Of Glass And Rusted Barbed Wire Day.”

    I’m assuming all of these special days are slightly less celebrated than say Christmas or a Birthday.

 Here are some gardening instruments:

      The tools, although loosely based on primitive man’s first efforts to till the soil, also closely resemble devices of torture utilized in a Medieval Spanish dungeon.

       So why, oh why would you have these implements of injury anywhere near you while you are naked? It’s bad enough that roses have thorns, but have you ever seen or held a pair of pruning shears? I mean, seriously!

        Exposing your body to the dangers of Medieval weaponry and thorny plants is bad enough, but for good measure, let’s throw in the possibility of being stung on your naughty bits by a bee, or bitten by a few mosquitoes. There isn’t an insect repellent in the world that could be strong enough to make me mow the lawn wearing nothing but a cheerful smile. You think a bug spray called “OFF” is going to cut it?

        I don’t think so.

        My bug spray of choice would have to be called “Insect Restraining Order,” or “Get The Fuck OFF Of Me!”

        So just why would anyone want to garden whilst naked? To me, this whole thing stinks of hippies wanting to get in touch with nature: Naked men and women with hair down to their bare asses showing off the kind of hideously under-groomed bodies similar to those depicted in the 1970s illustrated editions of “The Joy Of Sex.”

       I’m just wondering, do these hairy horticulturists wear gardening gloves?

        Yeah, hippy, for Christ’s sake, be sure to glove and protect those precious green thumbs. Oh, and while you’re pruning the roses don’t forget to trim that bush.

        Ugh!

         And if a talented gardener has “green thumbs” what does a talented naked gardener possess? Surely something that sounds like a dose of penicillin or a biotic (of the anti variety) might be in order. Or is modern medicine a second-rate tonic? Can’t we just go all Medieval and use a weed whacker?

          Here’s a legitimate question: How does one go about getting your own day in which everyone celebrates YOU? I mean, come on, “World Naked Gardening Day???”

          How long will it be before there is finally a “World Bay Area Brit Day?”

          And on what day should that fall?

          I mean, I wouldn’t want “World Bay Area Brit Day” on my birthday, that would be like having your birthday on Christmas Day. (Which must have been a really tough break for Jesus. Of all the dumb luck, the Son of God, born on Christmas Day: A lifetime of getting cheated lay ahead.)

          “Well, little Jesus, this wooden mule toy is for both your birthday AND Christmas.”

          Of course the three wise men, had all the angles covered:

          “This gift of gold is for your birthday. This is frankincense, you know, for Christmas, and then this right here is Myrhh, a balm made from the Commiphora Myrhha plant—a thorny piece of nastiness that probably gave Adam and Eve some seriously painful puncture wounds while they were cavorting around in the Garden of Eden like a couple of hairy hippies.”

Happy World Naked Gardening Day!!!!

The Gospel According To BART….part 3

Picture if you will, a series of tunnels and tracks that run through the Bay Area, both underground and above it. A place where not everything is what it seems. A place known as…..

Who knows what creatures you might see lurking out the window, tearing at the engine of the train.

When I’m having a rough morning after a late night fight with my wife, I love to bow my head, inhale the “fresh scent” of a BART seat and cry. It smells like dirty hair and things I regret saying while I was drunk.

These ads are everywhere. I care about them enough to make fun of their “awesomer” ability to make up words, but not enough to actually look up the website to see what the bloody hell it’s all about. WORST BART AD EVER!

It’s late, and on the BART platform sits proof that (somewhere) a Chippendale’s dancer is out of uniform.

If “fragile” means, “The suitcase that will crush all other suitcases when coming into sight at baggage claim,” then, yes, this suitcase is indeed “fragile.”

“My bike!!!!!!”……………BART would like to remind cyclists that it is not responsible for bikes parked on BART property.

“I can’t believe this jerk just put his feet up on my seat penning in me in like this. I’m going to tell him off any second now…..I’m just going to give this rude piece of shit a piece of my mind…..Oh, boy he’s going to feel my wrath….I’m just gonna……I’m ……Meh, maybe I’ll just stare wanly into an open space wishing that I had the nerve to say something.”

At least this guy had the sense to keep his feet off the seat.

Get me Bert Goldstein in Hollywood and find out why he hasn’t got me an acting gig in 5 months.

I said, “Ma’am, I don’t think this train goes to Paddington station.” She looked at me like I’m crazy and shuffled away from me. Yeah, like I’m the crazy one.

Always pay attention to the signs on the platform; they often contain information that must be obeyed.

Thanks for visiting. You can find part one here: https://thebayareabrit.com/2011/03/07/the-gospel-according-to-bart/

or part two here: https://thebayareabrit.com/2011/07/25/the-gospel-according-to-bart-part-ii/

Stop The Lin-Sanity!

So I know that this kind of thing is always a sensitive subject, but I’m going to run with it and face the consequences of your opinions. In some cases I will be taken to task and enlightened, and in other cases I will probably be misunderstood. For the most part The Bay Area Brit avoids serious issues. I try and keep things loose, and ideally I like you to leave my little home here with a smile on your face.

So here it is: The New York Knicks have a player that has come from the sporting equivalent of nowhere to become a sensation. Jeremy Lin dominated February’s basketball headlines and became the darling of New York. In the biggest city in America, he rose above the pressures and created an overnight success story. Fans held signs punning Lin’s name. “Lin-Sanity” was popular, “Lin-credible,” “Lin-spirational” etc etc.

 Some of them were funny and some were clever, but I didn’t see any that were offensive.

David Letterman even did a Top 10 List. However, things took an ugly turn when pun turned to slur. An ESPN headline writer penned the words “A CHINK IN THE ARMOR” when Lin’s winning streak came to an end.

Now I’m not particularly sensitive or “politically correct” for that matter, but using a derogatory word like “Chink” in referring to a player of Chinese ancestry cannot possibly be accidental—like the writer pleaded.

I’m guessing he thought he was being funny. He failed—miserably.

I know. I often fail miserably when trying to be funny, but then, no one and I mean NO ONE expects me to be serious or educate my audience. And since my audience is so much smaller, the expectations for me to be responsible are lessened.

Okay, so here’s a joke:

Jeremy Lin has come from such obscurity that if you Googled his name a month ago, a mid-level computer programmer at Microsoft would have popped up first.

Can I even say that?

Firstly, I think we can agree that the joke isn’t that funny. And it’s not, unfunny because it’s particularly offensive. It’s just not funny because it’s not funny.

Also, the thing about a joke like that is that while the Google search statement might be true, it might be deemed as offensive because it hits on a stereotype: Asians are smart.

Okay, admittedly not a very negative stereotype but one nonetheless.

So how far is too far?

I thought I had a rough idea, but when I saw the story below, I realized I just don’t know, any more.

Last week, Ben & Jerry’s felt they had to apologize for their latest Ice-Cream Flavor. Here’s a breakdown of my immediate reaction: “Uh-oh what did those dopey stoners do now?”

Then after reading more, I discovered that they called their new flavor, “Taste The Lin-Sanity.”

So I thought, “Did Ben & Jerry’s offend an advocacy group that works for the rights of the mentally ill? Is that why they had to apologize? No, that can’t be it.”

Then: “Ooh, what about the ingredients? Maybe the ice-cream contains some of that bright red, shiny, dead duck that you see hanging in the windows of some Chinese markets and restaurants.” I half expected to see the words: “Shiny, Red Duck Bits and Plum-Caramel Swirls.”

That wouldn’t be the worst ice-cream flavor I had ever heard of.

So it turns out the ingredients were: “Vanilla frozen yogurt, Lychee honey, and fortune cookie chips” I was still kind of at a loss…yeah, I guess that could be a little offensive…then I thought, is that really the reason? Is there more to this? Maybe they were apologizing because the flavor (much like my joke earlier) wasn’t any good.

Now here’s where I may be offending my Chinese readers. Are Chinese people really offended by the use of fortune cookies in an ice cream flavor? Or is this the work of politically correct, white people that think Asians would or should be offended? Which, in a way, if that’s the case, actually offends me.

I really don’t know. I guess I’m asking…throwing it out there…waiting to be informed. Why is this so awful?

There are Chinese-owned restaurants all over the world with the name “Fortune Cookie” in it. I still get fortune cookies when I order Chinese food. And sometimes they’re actually clever.

Please bear in mind my philosophy: I try to poke fun at everyone, and I do it as much as I make fun of my people, and myself. I openly embrace the modern British stereotype that we are beer-guzzling, soccer hooligans that have bad teeth. I get it.

The Asian community has embraced Jeremy Lin with pride…and rightly so; he’s the ultimate underdog, and he is the first American basketball star of Chinese descent, but his success has nothing to do with his race or his ancestry.

The gray areas of racism are just that: caught between the black and white. It’s just such a touchy subject, and people’s opinions differ so strongly on it that it’s difficult in that gray area to truly know what is right or wrong.

I know in my heart I have to feel comfortable with what I say or what I think. I have my own boundaries, but I don’t like being censored or told “I can’t say that,” but at the same time, I am willing to listen to both sides of the argument, and especially if it is done articulately and intelligently and without any name-calling.

Meanwhile, here’s a young man who went back to work this week. He already has enough nicknames, but whatever, he’s the real deal. Go Giants!

The Tap-to-Tap Challenge

Ladies and gentlemen, friends and enemies…It’s time to be baffled and amazed as The Bay Area Brit takes you on a quick journey of San Franciscan self-deprecation to lows you’ve never seen before, unless you’ve spent time kissing the rain gutters of this fair city.

Picture if you will, a sprightly jaunt, two blocks downhill on Fillmore Street to my former favorite haunt, (what was once) the greatest English pub San Francisco has ever seen: The Mad Dog In The Fog.

The days were daring, my friend. I saw myself as single and carefree. Nothing concerned my idle ways. Beer was my love during these saddest of times. Sure, I loved my female, beer-buddy sidekick, as I always do—whomever fills those shoes. The female sidekick allowed me to have the feminine companionship I craved without the complications that came in a “relationship.”

If one staggers around alone after a few too many pints, the chances are quite high that a bad choice in decision-making is around the corner. The female sidekick deters you from such moments of poor judgment—especially in the amour department. Because ultimately, one of the jobs of the sidekick, is to call you on your drunken shit, like when you’re in a darkened corner with what you thought was a hot chick but turns out to be an ATM machine.

Armed with a stack of cash, I told the bartender that I wanted to drink one of every single one of the 21 different varieties of beer on tap. I would start with the first tap and make my way around. If you think I’m kidding, you do not know The Bay Area Brit.

The bartender knew me, and while my statement of intent was met with a raised eyebrow, she wouldn’t have to decide for an hour or two just when she would have to cut me off.

The plan (excuse for trying this) was to assess each of the beers on tap and review them. There were many that I had never tasted. The smart thing to do would have been to sample the beer I had never tried first, so I would definitely know if I had discovered a new favorite brew. Scratch that: The smart thing to do would be not to attempt this dumb feat at all.

 I ordered the first beer and took a sip and felt my phone buzz. It was my female sidekick: a feisty, pretty, young sparkplug named Corie. I told her what I was attempting.

“This I’ve got to see,” she said. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get there.”

“You had better hurry then,” I laughed.

Corie showed up sporting a massive grin, and hopped on the barstool next to me.

“So what beer are you on now?” I raised one hand with some fingers extended.

“Four! You’re only at four?”

“I’m pacing myself.”

“They close in six hours, you’d better pick it up a bit.”

The funny thing was, Corie made no attempt to talk me out of this. For her, this would be fun, well at least until I became indecipherable. The bartender knew at this point that she wouldn’t have to cut me off. Corie and I lived a few blocks apart and she would make sure I got home safely. Although in retrospect: I had eight inches and probably eighty pounds on Corie. How would she carry me two blocks uphill?

In my mind, having Corie there with me somehow legitimized what I was doing as fun and not insanely stupid. Had she not been there, I would have been just another sad and depressed drunken Englishman, hell bent on self-destruction because he could never find a girfriend that would a) put up with him, or b) that he loved being with as much as his favorite sidekick.

For the next few hours during The Tap-To-Tap Challenge, Corie and I laughed, while I sank further and further into inebriation. As she always did, when she’d had a few beers, she would try and stick a finger in my ear or try to put a digit up my nose or grab my hand and make me slap myself. I never knew why she would want to do this (or put her finger in these places), but the wrestling that would ensue would make sure we burst into foolish drunken laughter.

After a while, (I was trying to choke down Beer #15) I could sense Corie was getting bored, because I hadn’t made any progress from Beer #14 to #15 in half an hour. I believe #15 was a hearty, brown bitter served at room temperature. There was no way this was going to go down and stay down.

I wasn’t feeling so great. I slurred to Corie that I had trained my whole life for this moment. How was it possible that I couldn’t do this?

Corie said, “Come on let’s get you home.” I vaguely remember taking a long route back home falling upwards, while Corie guided me laughing hysterically as she negotiated a comparative giant noodle of a human up the hill.

The next morning, through the cobwebs of a brutal hangover, I knew what Corie had done. She knew that I needed help, and she knew that she could never talk me out of my foolish attempt, and so she came down to the pub, not just to keep me company, but to make sure that I was going to be all right at the end of it.

A few weeks after the Tap-To-Tap Challenge, Corie and I would be side-kicking it together at The Mad Dog when I would be introduced to a woman who would eventually become my wife.

Corie told me later that while she was happy for me, she was also sad, because she knew that it was the end of “us” as we knew it.

Not only was it the end of “us,” it seemed like it was the end of me needing a female sidekick to save me from myself.

Two weeks ago, at the age of 34, Corie Woods suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. I don’t know how or why it happened. At the time of writing this, I don’t believe there are any definite answers.

I have a hundred wonderful memories of time spent with her. The Tap-To-Tap Challenge was perhaps the silliest. She was as special to me as she was to everyone who knew her.

I will always love you, my little sidekick.

R.I.P. Corie

The Gospel According To BART ….part II

BART continues to be a source of amusement for the pic-and-caption team at The Bay Area Brit. I hope that you feel the same way.

The BART station agent’s financial woes are aired for everyone to see. However, if BART paid him more money maybe he would stay in his little booth the whole shift like he’s supposed to.

I keep seeing these ads on the BART platforms everywhere. I know when I’m scraping together the $2.75 to take BART in the morning, I often think to myself: “I should just donate my luxury yacht to some page 3 pin-up dressed like Donald Duck.” Really?

Speaking of ads: Why did the people that paid for the Judgment Day Warning posters pay to have their ads run through the end of July? Silly rapture-wanters.

This young man takes a heroin nap during the evening commute to San Francisco. He will wake up three hours later in Richmond and will have somehow lost his wallet, his ID, his sunglasses, and his Nikes.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen this happen, people.

A Female commuter regrets her decision to partake in “Take A Convict To Work Day” when he tells her that he’s never really known true love before…until now.

You know I just couldn’t resist

If you missed the first one, click below, and don’t be shy with a comment if you liked it, hated it, or are in one of the pictures and want your silly face blurred.

https://thebayareabrit.com/2011/03/07/the-gospel-according-to-bart/

The Illustrated Guide On How To Dine And Dash

***This particular blog has become extremely popular. It is satire, and should not be taken seriously. We do NOT condone Dining and Dashing.***

**************************************

“HOW TO DINE AND DASH” is now a short film. Just click on the link.

An Indian restaurant in London called Khan’s had so many issues with people running out without paying their bill that they only hired young, lean Indian waiters that could run the 100 meters in less than 11 seconds. There were usually 9 or 10 servers on the floor, all of them with leg muscles stretched and limbered up, ready to take off into the night to chase someone likely so full of curry they didn’t stand a chance of getting away. 

On at least three visits to Khan’s I saw someone try to Dine And Dash. It would usually start with some plates being dropped, followed by the sound of furniture being swept aside, and then frantic yelling (Probably Hindi for, “We’ve got a runner!”) then there would be a flurry of white shirts and Nikes sprinting out the front door in spicy hot pursuit of the Dine ‘n’ Dasher like they were running from the bulls in Pamplona.

They always caught the runner and dragged him back to the restaurant. The Dine ‘n’ Dasher always looked like he had been roughed up a bit in the skirmish, and the adrenaline-pumped waiters’ high-fived each other in victory as other diners applauded.

Embarrassing to say the least.

If only the Dine ’n’ Dasher had thought more carefully about his restaurant choice—unless of course he enjoyed the rush of being chased down and beaten by a swoop of young Indian men.

Here now is

“The Illustrated Guide On How To Dine-And-Dash”

1)    Location, Location, Location

The successful Dine ‘n’ Dasher chooses their restaurant carefully.

The restaurant MUST be busy, the more chaotic the better.

If the restaurant has more than one exit, this is a plus.

Often, restaurants inside hotels are prime choice because the restrooms are located in the lobby and not in the dining room, making escape easy.

The experienced Dine ‘n’ Dasher knows that choosing the right restaurant shouldn’t be based on the quality of the menu, but the likelihood of a successful escape.

Continue reading

Steaming Aphrodite

I recently bought a trunk at a flea market and was surprised to discover that it had a false bottom. Under the faux cover I discovered a diary written in 1909 by a man named Dr. York Van Landingham. Here is a page:

July 17th 1909

She was from Mother Russia and her name was Svetlana Minsky. She spoke perfect English in an accent that one could not detect as foreign. Svetlana had a penchant for bawdy revelry, and used the kind of language which might make an unassuming male turn burgundy from blushing. I had sought her company while we were aboard a steamboat vessel bound for the shores of North Africa. I was wary of her however, as earlier, I had witnessed her bilk three men of their life savings with a fifth, and yes even a sixth King up her lace sleeve.

In the event that her conniving was discovered, she kept a knife in her garter. Upon discovering the weapon one sultry night in Constantinople I decided to nickname her “Svetlana Switchblade.” As I recall, she only stabbed me with it once, and I remain convinced that it was somewhat accidental, but the piercing occurred after I confessed that I relinquished one of her diamond earrings to get out of a tight spot in Bombay.

The night we met, I caught up with her on the deck as she stared out across the Atlantic Ocean at the purple dusk, her winnings tucked into the folds of her undergarments. She told me she’d first noticed me playing trumpet among the troupe of musicians that kept the passengers and crew entertained. It was someone else that she had seen, but I played along not wishing to disappoint her.

She told me she had been entrusted to discover if there were truths to the legend of the goddess Aphrodite and the potions so named after her. She had journeyed through Greece and was now headed to the barely reachable corners of the darkest continent. Entrusted by whom she never confirmed, but she had alluded to a man named Rasputin.

I knew nothing of Aphrodite and she asked me to join her in her cabin to discuss matters of amour. I hadn’t been invited to a woman’s quarters since my journey began and I lustily agreed. She asked if I had absinthe, and of course I did.

We sipped our pastis and made playful conversation. She pulled a patina box from the drawer and opened it. “This is dust from a rhinoceros’s horn,” she said, offering it to me.

     “And?” I said.

     “You snort it, like so.”

     “Madame, I have ingested many a foreign object in my time but nothing from a beast of such stature.”

“It’s an aphrodisiac.

 “An aphro what?”

“It’s named after the goddess,” she said. “If you take it you will likely want to consume me with desire.”

     “I have never heard of such a thing. Won’t I become ill?”

     “No. Legend says that you will become aroused. Try it.”

      “Hm, do you have any other aphrodisiacs, say something in a chewable form?”

       “Many men have died trying to discover what it is about this and other ingredients that turn us into savages.” She passed a leather-bound book under my nose that she had been writing in. I opened it somewhere near the beginning and read her words. I suddenly felt the urge to regurgitate my lunch.

      “What in the name of Satan’s hot tub?”

       “What did you read? Is it the tiger penis thing?”

        “Yes, of course it’s that!!”

        “That’s usually the reaction.”

         “People actually eat tiger’s penises?” I blurted. She nodded slowly. “I mean I’m adventurous in the kitchen, Svetlana, but there is one ingredient that doesn’t leap to mind when cooking and that is tiger penis. I mean, how does one even discover something like that? Oh, I know, why don’t I try tiger penis in my omelet this morning? But before I can do that it’s off to hunt and castrate a tiger…hope he doesn’t mind having his masculinity severed from him before he’s had his morning cup of tea. Maybe I can find other ways to use tiger penis, since I went to the trouble, maybe as an accompaniment to a cheese plate. Oh what have we got here then? Brie, Camembert, Stilton, Tiger penis…oh, yes, perfect, just fits right in there doesn’t it? Pass the salted crackers; this tiger penis is in need of a bed of crunchiness before I can consume it. Good god!”

        “What is it then that makes man want to consume the horn from a rhinoceros and the genitals of a jungle cat?” she asked with a perfectly straight face.

        “I couldn’t tell you, Svetlana, but if this catches on, these poor things are looking to go the way of the dodo and the unicorn. Oh no, do you think that’s what happened to those doomed creatures? Unicorn testicle flambé ? Dodo Eggs Benedict?”

       She calmed me with her smile and we drank long into the night. At some point she asked if I would be interested in joining her on her mission. I laughed. “As long as you don’t try to get me to snort pelican beak, drink panda bear urine, or inhale a mongoose’s fart. I’ll think upon it.”

      Hours later I awoke under my own bed with a headache the size of the earthquake that shook San Francisco. In my view was a half-eaten plate of oysters and my ears filled with sounds of an accordion melody skipping on the phonograph caught in a three second loop. Oh, Svetlana, I thought, I really must stop drinking that absinthe.

I crawled out from beneath the bed and sought the comfort of some woolen trousers so that I might get some fresh sea air and locate my mysterious Russian adventurer. Tomorrow night we are due to dock in Casablanca. I hope that there are no tigers in Morocco, the temptation might be too great an urge to resist.