Thunder Valley Ranch

Oh my god the hell – what were we thinking??!!


I will tell you this story in the best detail I can will myself recollect.

So, Kathryn, our friend who shall remain nameless for sake of protecting identities (we’ll refer to him as Boy X from here on out), and myself had the inspired idea to go on a San Francisco tourist bar crawl.  This is my formal apology also to anyone I may have texted rude or inappropriate things too.

This lovely tour began at John Foley’s, i.e. glorified Bennigans across from loads of hotels – middle America tourists abound.  Nothing much to note about John Foley’s aside from the fact that is where we collaborated and decided upon the fake identities which would portray for the rest of the evening.  

Here is our back story:  I, Megan Delaney am the grand-daughter of an Irish immigrant who moved from Staten Island, NY to Cheyenne, WY.  Just outside of Cheyenne my grandfather opened a cattle and horse ranch called Thunder Valley Ranch.  He chose the name because the herds of buffalo reminded him of the thunder from the old country.  My father had inherited the ranch from him, right after he was remarried to  a Vegas showgirl, Katie aka Cindi’s (yes with an ‘i’) mother.  So my step-sister Cindi and I were coheirs to the Thunder Valley Ranch.  Up until a year ago when my father passed away. Now we run the ranch with Jonny aka Boy X, who in a Jack Kerouac moment packed up all this things and moved out to Cheyenne from Brooklyn to experience simple living.  Yeah, we thought about that for quite a while.  So, under this guise we began the bar crawl.

After John Foley’s we headed to Gold Dust, imagine red velvet booth style seating and live a jazz band playing.  We enjoyed the sweet ass tunes here for a hot minute.  And our crass Irish server. Then decided we needed to probably needed to consume some sort of food.  This is when we decided that NY style pizza while walking down the street was a good idea.  Per the advice of the doorman at Gold Dust we headed toward Lefty O’Douls (you will quickly see a pattern of the Irish pub scene).  Lefty’s was easily the most lame of all the places we went to last night.  One, we never actually got a drink because the bartender was clearly an idiot.  Kate got hit on by some lame-ass, extremely short guy from Boston.  Boy X and myself where undoubtedly standing in the path of a disgruntle, ancient cocktail waitress; and were accosted several times.  After about 7 minutes of this torture, I loudly announce that we were getting the hell out of this shit hole.  This, didn’t sit well with Boston Boy, apparently.  

At this point, Katie and I were ready to see the debauchery that is North Beach.  There is a Bourbon Street-esque feel to the particular part of North Beach we started out in.  Vile strip clubs line the streets and drunk fratty mcfrat frats with their hoe-bag girlfriends/hookers wander around aimlessly.  Fun!  We all agree to go to indulge a bit in the Italian heritage of North Beach and go to Gino and Carlos’.  I’m fairly certain 90% of the patrons of this establishment are over 50, Italian, and stupid.  Especially, one with an obvious gram-a-day coke habit.  We will refer to him as Mr. Magic Man or Mr. MM.  He just so happened to be chatting with the table next to us, when Kate noticed that he must be a magician and insisted he show us a trick.  After Mr. MM finished his slide of hand he sat down and began to talk with us for a minute.  At some point during the conversation, he showed us some contraption that he wears while performing.  It’s purpose is the display electronic messages – in his case, messages that rudely insist that tipping is necessary.  Unfortunately, for us the contraption had broken earlier that day.  And apparently Mr. MM has some pent up rage (or was having a really bad high) and began breaking the tiny device – which he then threw on the floor.  Which was one thing, but then the kicker… As Boy X goes to pick it up, Mr. MM says “No, leave it!!  Some Mexican will sweep it up tomorrow and think he’s found a treasure for his Christmas tree.”

Really?!?  I don’t think Kate or I have been then outraged in a long time.  We left shortly thereafter.  On the way out, I thought it best to restrain Kate from saying something to that idiot – obviously, people here are nuts.  

Now, we are off to O’Reiley’s – I told you there would be more of my blood pubs.  Which was a great time… Here we had the opportunity to really get a group of people going on our story – an adorable little group of Asian men in suits.  They, “Had never met anyone from Wyoming before!!” Little do they know – they still haven’t… but we at least got to try out the full story for a group of gullible folks.  O’Reiley’s also is where Craig and his friends met up with us.

Everything else that happened was fairly irrelevant – aside from the cab ride home… 

Or cab driver was rocking out to some crazy Middle Eastern pop/shit that he politely turned down for us when we got in… until we demanded that it be turned up as loud as it would go!!!  We then rolled down the windows and began dancing like the maniacs we are.  I’m sure of any of the words in that song but it was something that sounded like “San Fran Disco”


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