Staggering Through Fog
The fightinest look at San Francisco bars since Fajitagate, as brought to you by your substitute barrespondent, Jackson (who's filling in for Drew while he's drinking at the 'Greatest Bar of Them All,' AKA Mexico)...
We think that "Don't drink and drive" is so limiting. America is about freedom of choice, no? So we'd like to propose it be amended to "Drink or drive." First, it's way less negative -- you know how belligerent drunks can get when you tell them they can't do something. Second, it presents you with options. Do we want to drink tonight? Okay, then we won't drive. Maybe we'd like to drive somewhere? Well, then, maybe we shouldn't drink. See, much better.
The best part about drinking in San Francisco is that no matter where you live, there's somewhere within 'Staggering' distance that's bound to be at least tolerable. And when we mean staggering, we mean somewhere so close, and on a relatively straight, unambiguous route, that you can get home even after your cerebral cortex has shut down and your central nervous system is firing at quarter-time. For SFist, that means Pops at the corner of 24th and York, which is only a couple dozen yards from our Fortress of Solitude.
First off, Jack's is actually a little closer, but the last time we went there we got caught in the middle of a fight between patrons who were Mexican shouting epithets at patrons who were Guatemalan, and both parties were sauced enough to quickly cross the epithet threshhold and venture into knifing territory. Jack's is also the kind of place that opens bright and early at 6am, which is just depressing, since the same people seem to be there at 6pm. We like to drink, but we'd rather not make a day job of it.
That's not to say that we haven't been caught in the middle of a couple of fights at Pops, and even had a hand in breaking them up. But the violence is usually confined to one super-belligerent individual who is so sauced as to be relatively harmless, and the 'tenders and regulars are quick to band together and excise the cancer from the premises. Frankly, we consider it entertaining -- the kids on the Real World aren't half as fun to watch stumbling around as the dude we saw get kicked out of one party after his girlfriend egged him into a fight, only to show up a Pops, where his girlfriend egged him into another fight (a couple of bearhugs by SFist and the arrival of a crew of bouncers dropping by after work quickly put to rest his shenanigans).
When people aren't getting into fisticuffs, which is most of the time, they're just enjoying the company of friends and the professionalism of the staff. A pitcher of PBR will run you $6.50, Wednesday night is "Dollar Hamms" night, and they'll make you any kind of girlie mixed drink you might want. The decor and most prevalent fashion is decidedly punk, but being a tolerant neighborhood bar in the Mission (and, if tales we've heard are to be believed, formerly a hub of the local Puerto Rican community), all kinds are welcome. We've seen well-dressed couples grabbing a nightcap after a date wedged in between emo boys with poet shirts and burly bikers sporting all kinds of tats.
To give you a sense of the devotion some people feel towards Pops, they've been known to throw parties for special occassions, including live band events, Halloween balls, and were even open last Thanksgiving. There's a pool table, two TVs, quiet booths at the back, a table-top Galaga/Ms. Pacman, an eclectic jukebox and even a photobooth. So that you don't get drunk on an empty stomach, Taqueria San Francisco and the St. Francis are across the street, and they'll let you bring food in. For those in the neighborhood, there's a laundromat just kitty-corner, so that you can get sauced while washing the stale beer smell out of your Dead Kennedy's tee.
So here's to Pops -- thanks for putting up with us!