This is the story of how, after all we’ve been through together, Medjool 86′d me. 
We went there in the same mood we always do- jubilant, high-spirited, energetic, and ready to dance. The others had preloaded. Ibrahim, after not having had alcohol for several months as a nod to his observant-Muslim homies, decided to celebrate the end of Ramadan by breaking his sober streak in a big way. He drank almost a fifth of vodka immediately after the bottle arrived in the apartment, brought by my boyfriend, H. We quickly confiscated the bottle so the remainder could be put in a drink for H. As H poured his own drink, Ibrahim began dancing around the apartment, singing made-up songs. H and I eyed each other. It was only 8 o’clock and the others hadn’t even arrived yet.
H sipped his mixed drink slowly and rolled several spliffs at a leisurely pace. We planned to bring these out with us and smoke them at intervals throughout the night. There would be no smoking at home because, we concluded, that would just make us sleepy. When we smoke before we go out, we never end up going out.
Ayman, Shaddi, Khalil, and Francisco arrived, and after greetings, we decided to go.
We hadn’t been to Medjool in maybe six months. A couple members of our regular crew had gotten married, others were traveling abroad, and it just wasn’t the same. But with the core group back in town and ready to party, we decided our old haunt was just the place to go.
Ayman parked the car around the corner from Medjool and we passed the joint around. Everyone had some, even Ibrahim, who clearly was in need of no further inebriation. Even Shaddi partook, something he rarely does. And then, only sparingly. We strutted into the club like we owned it, danced like we picked the music, and drank like it was water. H started spinning me around and doing all that crazy stuff that happens when a man with a bunch of muscles has been spending too much time indoors. It reminded me of how my dog acts when he doesn’t get any exercise for a few days- when I finally take him to the park, he runs frantically in circles with no regard for any of the known rules of our social contract.
My shoe clipped someone during one of these spins, and some security goon stepped in to tell H that he can’t be doing shit like that. There will be no lifting up of his dance partner.
I think that’s where it all started.
First, let me say that H has issues with authority. He came from a country where authority figures are all up in your business 24/7. You can be just walking down the street when a soldier will come up to you and tell you to take your clothes off. So in the land of the free over here, he damn sure expects to dance any way he pleases. But he said “yeah, ok,” to the bouncer, grumbled to me about how he’s never going back to that place again, and we go back to dancing.
Now, unbeknownst to me, at this time, Ibrahim, Shaddi, and Ayman are still outside. Ayman is playing babysitter because Ibrahim is doing somersaults on the sidewalk and Shaddi is sitting on the curb having a bad trip. He’s convinced there was something besides weed in the joint. Ayman, out of boredom, does nothing to convince Shaddi otherwise. In fact, he suggests that perhaps H and I switched joints after we smoked from it, and gave him a different one. You know, like a conspiracy. The paranoia just takes off from there. Shaddi lights up a cigarette and Ayman says, “No man, you can’t do that! If you smoke a cigarette after a joint you could have a stroke!”
Shaddi immediately flicks his cigarette away into the street, as if it was toxic.
“Thanks Ayman,” he says. “You’re a good friend.”
Finally they make it inside and I see Shaddi moving his arms up and down a little in an alternating pump sort of motion. I can see he’s trying to dance but have no idea why he’s so clueless about it. Ayman says to him, “That’s good man. Dancing will make you feel better.”
“Am I doing it right?”
“Yeah, but more like this,” Ayman responds, and pumps his arms a little higher in the air as an example.
“Ok I think I’ve got it.” The paranoia seemed to be fading a little.
We all thought this would be a good time to go up to the roof and smoke another joint. It’s a little cold, but that’s mitigated by the booze, weed, and exercise-generated body heat. We huddle in a circle, all seven of us, and tell stories about old times, good times. Shit the guys did in Vegas, close scrapes, near-arrests, people we miss who weren’t there that night.
I become aware of a bouncer at my elbow and through my stoner haze I gather that H is arguing with him about the joint. Ah yes, the joint, I think. Riiiiiight, that stuff’s illegal. Well no matter. But H’s voice is getting louder. The bouncer leans in close and says “You know I’m gonna have to take that away from you, man.”
It’s then that H has had enough authority for one night. He bellows, “You don’t tell me what I can and can’t do and you’re not taking shit away from me!” Another bouncer at bouncer #1’s side gets on his radio and says something. Immediately, an army of black trenchcoats spills from the stairwell door. They surround us. Bouncer #1 smiles smugly and says, “It’s time for you to leave.”
Everyone except H agrees that, indeed, it is a good time to leave. Look at the time! We must be getting home! But with six of his friends gingerly pushing, pulling, and suggesting that we should go, progress is still slow. He stares down one bouncer at a time and his eyes shoot wrath-darts.
By now the substances have affected his foreign language ability and he begins yelling things that don’t make sense in English. For example, in English we would say “I’m gonna fuck you up.” In Arabic, the same thing would be phrased “I’m gonna fuck you.” So as we make our slow progress down the stairs, H is yelling to one bouncer after another “I’m gonna fuck you, man!”
We’ve finally made it to the bottom of the stairs and are literally three steps from the door when H decides to make his last stand. He plants his feet and stares down at the instigating bouncer, a man who clearly has a hard-on for H personally, since he’s the one who gave us shit about our dancing and then, there is was again, on the roof. Somehow, at this time, Khalil escaped our bouncer escort and went to the bathroom. I’m pulling as hard as I can on H’s arm but he’s like a statue. It’s on lock and it doesn’t even move from his side, not even an inch. His fists are balled, but he’s not a stupid man- he won’t throw the first punch. But I know how bad he wants this security guy to hit him so he can break. His. Shit. Off.
They’re nose to nose, H and bouncer, a very intimate relationship, when H growls, “You want me to fuck you?” Security guy blinks, says nothing, looks at our friends in confusion. The guys suggest to H once more that leaving would be a good idea but H has had enough suggestions for tonight.
Just then Khalil comes out of the bathroom, arguing with a bouncer who has just now realized he escaped to there.
“You have to leave, dude,” the bouncer says.
“I don’t even care, my brother,” Khalil says casually as he strolls confidently to the door. “This place sucks anyway, and y’all are assholes. If I even come back here after ten years I’m a BITCH!”
And the whole group of us spill out onto the sidewalk simultaneously, in a burst of hyena-like laughter, and make our way to the place we always go when it’s after midnight and we’re drunk: the corner taqueria.
In the car on way home, with five of us squished into Ayman’s sports car, H says to Ibrahim, “Man, I told you not to drink so much. Why the hell are you acting so stupid?”
Ibrahim responds, in Arabic, “You know I act like a donkey when I’m drunk. What the hell do you want from me?”
what a bunch of douches!
Cliff notes version: we were kicked out of a bar.
Welcome to the new Mission, brought to you by High School, Inc.
We acted like ass-hats in the top douche bar in The Mission, and then security had THE NERVE to kick us out.
Um, go dry your tears on your Christian Audiger $200 t-shirt. Your sorrow means nothing to us.
That sounds about right for Medjool.
Medjool sucks… but these guys sound like the kind of fools that make it suck. Just get out of the bar.
zackly. stop making things suck
Just take pride that you helped contribute to this title:
http://sf.eater.com/archives/2008/11/25/douchiest_bar_vote_winner_medjool.php
why is this relevant?
Wow. You and your friends sound like real dicks! I’m glad you went out of your way to point out that you drove to the bar and all of you were smoking dope! Cheers.
What the hell is a journal entry doing on Mission Mission? Is Tomi a new regular writer? Is this Tomi’s style/normal content? Someone else for me to block?
(PS if anyone wants a RSS feed of Mission Mission w/o Kat, here it is….
http://pipes.yahoo.com/pipes/pipe.info?_id=a3cef28736247ef3144c4d694820b1c2
)
how did you do that? thank you.
This seems unnecessarily petty to me.
Too bad they didn’t drive off a cliff. It would have done the world a big favour.
i think you did this thread already
stop posting
tl;dr
Douchebags get kicked out of douchey bar? *shock*
Tomi is an old regular writer who has returned to give some closure to the Medjool saga. Block me if you want, but even though you haters are all sourfaced, my posts remain some of the most viewed on MissionMission, indeed, on wordpress itself. People complain about other people who do stupid shit, but stupid shit is timeless. Like Jackie O or…pea coats.
Hey Tomi, Please keep writing and posting, just not journals please, they’re better on live journal or something. It’s out of style with the Mission Mission aesthetic.
As you can see by the comments we’re all thoroughly enjoying your long posts. BTW if you think you’re one of the most read writers on WordPress.com you really are smoking dope.
I write because I care. This is a 2 way street. Feedback is good.
maybe they are most viewed because of the WTF-is-this comments, not because of the long winded self-indulgent crybaby drama.
I love my smack-talking friends on here.
hahaha, no one gives a fuck about your pageviews. yeah, tmz gets a shitload of pageviews, but it still sucks.
this post just sucked. bad writing, bad content.
Whoa! Wait a minute.
Did Mission Mission get hacked into by some folks from the Marina????
so, your night of ironic medjool attendance got interrupted because your boyfriend is suffering from ptsd? who cares. go home.
what the hell is this? you’re the reason why i hate medjool, asshat.
Thanks, Mission Mission. You helped me learn that people from cultures and societies very different from my own can still be massive toolbag dorks. Eracism!
Off to go throw some wrath-darts with a friend, and see if I can break. His. Shit. Off.
I agree with most of the commenters. This sounds like “A Typical Night for Douchebags in the Mission”. Take your fucking asshole behavior to the Marina, assholes. You’re trite and will probably be living in Ohio by the end of next year.
what the fuck is wrong with ohio?
Seriously, it’s not like the rivers there catch on fire or anything. Oh wait…
you and your friends seem like assholes.
How is this even a story? There’s no interesting quirks, no conclusion, just yuppies getting hammered. Can’t you think of interesting things to do when drunk, like vomit on a SUV or pretend to eat a dead pigeon or something?
I think you meant to be in the Marina, not the Mission.
Would you guys by chance be distant relatives to the Dhaliwal brothers?
HAHAHA. Well played.
completely idiotic.
are you comparing basic human rights in middle eastern countries to the right to hit people on the dancefloor and smoke weed on someone else’s roof in san francisco?
anybody who has ever fought for human rights would be ashamed of you.
What’s this Marina Marina post doing in Mission Mission?!
It’s Marina Marina Marina, get it straight
http://marinamarinamarina.wordpress.com/
Does your acknowledgement of how bad this post is mean you’re going to ‘fix’ the situation?
I wanna hear the next part, when they piss off everyone enjoying their burritos at ‘corner taqueria’.
This post made me side with Medjool. I feel dirty.
Let me get the story straight, you got wasted at home, even the guys who don’t drink got wasted, and then you got in a car and drove. Then you got even more wasted and got in a car and drove. Nice, did you happen hit a cyclist and break his back on the way home? Or drive into a parked building? When you look into a mirror do you see a sphincter? Or is your head so far up your ass you only see intestine?
I like reading Mission Mission but now I’m worried I might be a cunt because all the other readers are palpably cunty, as judging from these comments.
First of all, smoking weed is good, especially in public. Second of all, Medjool is a bunch of assholes and there is no way that bouncer wasn’t an asshole (what kind of bouncer fucks with someone for smoking weed, let alone tries to confiscate it). Third of all, who the fuck is Chrisitan Audinger?? Fourth, why the fuck do you people keep saying asshat??? Fifth, can anyone think of an insult other than “you’re from the marina,” cause besides being old it sounds like classic yuppie self-hatred. Sixth, that dude boyonabike who said “hahaha well played” like he’s some sophisticated critic of literary comedy is just a cock (why not just wear a sign that says “I get inside jokes!!”?). Seventh, the dudes who are like don’t compare dancing to basic human rights and did you kill a cyclist on the way home, are histrionic to the extent of being full blown twats.
In conclusion, that dude who keeps trying to get the author to stop posting should probably just fuck his hand.—peace and love, peace and love
hope you wore a dental dam bro!
i bet YOU’RE from the marina, asshat.
histrionic? there is a direct comparison in the article, there’s an entire paragraph dedicated to it. I would hope that growing up in a country where basic freedoms are not provided would make you respect and appreciate them in this country, not take them for granted and cry like a baby when you’re no longer being coddled.
And, yes, smoking weed is great but it’s not your legal right to do it wherever you want to. No one is defending Medjool -on the contrary we hate it as much as ever- we’re just saying the author and her friends actually fit in really well there.
you got hope they would have been 86′d anywhere but at least they had the good sense to go to Medjool which would be their best chance to fit right in.
Clearly no one has ever read the sign at Nap’s on Mission: “If you do drugs in this bar, you will be 86′ed for good.”
Jesus. Assholes. Why do I even look at this fucking blog?
I think it’s possible that the author’s feeling of pride and self importance that she and her boyfriend’s (who could break.one.off.) posse are somehow special acting like losers at the lame worldbeat bar is setting off this “stoning” from the comments section.
I’m sure she’s surprised her wanna- be mission loser
posting is receiving such venom, but when you write about ME ME ME and MY MY MY thinking everybody is interested in your mundane, “we’re wasted” party life, maybe think again.
I miss Allan.
+1.
So true! This is what happens when Allan takes time off. These people are raping the corpse of his formerly awesome blog.
Ouch
You may be taking blogs too seriously.
You fucked me alright.
What a shithouse post.
Everyone’s a critic! Once in a while I’m still surprised by how little it takes for a bunch of people to reach out and make some stranger feel pretty bad–dressing up the straw man with dehumanizing labels and despicable motives to suit the vitriolic fantasy of the moment.
The casual wickedness spooks me a little–but it’s the opportunism that makes me angry. This is just a cowardly way to relate to the world, and you couldn’t get away with it face to face. In a world with social consequences, you wouldn’t try to.
Why are people so much more comfortable expressing themselves toward petty negative ends when there is so much productive communication left undone? I have a hunch that the people throwing insults here don’t put the same effort into writing letters to their elected officials about matters of consequence, or even providing supportive feedback for the free entertainment they actually DO enjoy.
This isn’t a coliseum. These are real people just sharing their experiences. If you really can’t stand what they have to say consider leaving the party, quietly.
while this is not the sort of post i’m used to seeing here, that’s fine, variety is nice.
mostly what bugs me is the casual reference to getting wasted and finding it acceptable behavior to drive it off. you wanna go out and get tossed from a bar? great. more power to you. but think about applying yrself to not killing someone on the way home. idiot.
i *hate* every single person who works at medjool. especially the bouncers.
i can see both sides. more so the bouncers though.
they asked not to lift up people on the dance floor because of obvious hazards involved then they asked you to put away that shit.
all understandable requests, but what isn’t is your childish behavior/reaction that was detailed in the post.
meh, whatever, more power to you guys?
i can’t really tell…but i assume you guys are gay (it really doesn’t matter because i’m from vancouver) but i didn’t see any chicks in your story