GB’s newest post reminded me that–despite my whining, bitching, cavilling, and general curmudgeonliness–my life does, in fact, kind of rock. And we did, in fact, have an amazingly fabulous weekend in SF.
God *damn* I love that city. I love it with the love of an infatuated 13-year-old. I want to write “luckybuzz + sf” in my notebook with hearts around it. I want to marry it and bring it coffee in bed and wake it up with kisses. Friends, it’s the Gospel Bob of cities. I miss it.
But the weekend rocked. Here are a few reasons why:
- Despite not having seen us in a year, 16 friends, old and not-so-old, came out to the bar Friday night. That’s freaking awesome.
- As GB also mentioned, our amazing bartender–who only sees GB and I once a year when we come in with the big group o’ drunks–gave us a round of shots on the house. She does this Every. Single. Time. we’re all there.
- We had Yellow Sub! In the park! Yu-fucking-um.
- We had paneer tikka korma at Indian Oven, the best Indian restaurant in the whole fucking country.
- We had burritos. Oh, San Francisco burritos, how I miss you. There is nothing like you anywhere else.
- A friend showed us a really cool piece of the city we’d never seen before. Here’s a tiny bit of it:
And tucked away along these stairs we found these, and a few of them were even ripe, and they were sweet and juicy and unexpected and excellent.
- And we wandered around and bought records and stayed at two friends’ houses and petted five kitties and laughed more than I can remember in way too freaking long (probably since the last time I saw you. Yes, I mean you.). And I got to do the whole weekend with this guy:
which makes me, pretty much, the luckiest person ever. So yeah. Maybe I need to cheer the fuck up, already. Cheer up, Murray! Yeah, see, I feel better already.