I'M SORRY but when it gets really hot and sweaty as it did on Sunday and will repeat today on Monday, people become insane. It's already evident the majority of you don't know how to drive on regular days so when the thermometer hits the 80's and 90's you all get worse, no excuses, people. Pay attention.
Sunday was spontaneous Sunday; hotter and humid as hell as previously noted --so what to do? Get in the car and head over to comfort land, or in the 415 Media Zone, my favorite hangout, Tommy's Joynt. Fressed on the lamb shanks like I was Karen Carpenter coming from down under to miraculously, suddenly appear. Holy schmolly! Met KSCO owner, Michael Zwerling who berated me because I dare drive to Tommy's. "You're never going to find a parking place!" Naturally I found a spot at the top of the street right off Van Ness, more bargain, FREE PARKING! Even on Sunday, free parking is a delight in the city of cranes. One crane after another. Buildings about to be born fed with more people hitting the streets in a city that is only 49 square miles. One of these days they'll really be no place to park and then what? I wonder what Herb Caen would say. He called it back in the day, the "Manhattanization" of SF. Good old Herby. Could you imagine him writing about the soulless techies and their private buses that screw up traffic on Market and throughout the city. He'd have a field day.
Sunday in the city by the bay. Humid and hot as get go. Most of the restaurants don't have air conditioning so business was dead, at least from my vantage point. Tommy's was cramped and no air (naturally) but the shanks made up for it. Original Joe's was packed to the rafters as was The North Beach Restaurant. You could tell the tourists were having orgasms as the weather wasn't your normal July/fog fashion seminar. I saw a guy who looked like some Ohio dude with his unseemly shorts and Golden Gate Bridge t-shirt wolfing down a Tony's pizza slice. He looked more Fisherman's Wharf than North Beach, but I digress.
San Francisco women on a hot and humid Sunday. Sun dresses, cell phones and some pretty fantastic fake boobs. About as genuine as the guys who have mosh pits on the top of their scalp. I never figured out the fake hair pieces--guys, women know they're fake so what's the point? You all look so silly. Boobs are another thing. Perfectly legitimate for miscreants like me who blog freely and attempt to create real journalism by staring at fake boobs and wolfing down lamb shanks like a shark on blood.
Sunday on the Streets of San Francisco. Characters everywhere. The July sun and mashed potato skies with people doing this and that...Fat Tony was holding court outside Geno&Carlo. The Manifesto boys were playing dominoes at Café Trieste --which only made the line longer and me more irritated. So I grabbed a 4 buck Americano and headed out across the street. By this time it was getting hotter and so I grabbed a schmatah--that's Yiddish for rag--and began wiping my forehead and looking positively ridiculous. Fortunately, more fake boobs to observe.
I moved on to the Embarcadero which was not so sweet a move as mass humanity littered the streets. It felt like it was 100 outside and there was no breeze. An avalanche of tourists lined upper Market near the Ferry Building. More boobs and more tourists. I'm thinking: "What the hell were you (me) thinking? It's gonna take at least an hour to get outta here and twice that back over the bridge to Oakland." The aroma of fresh crab and spectacular sight of extra, extra fake boobs neutralized my obvious physical discomfort. Hot and sweaty days will do that.
Back in the saddle...back to Oakland. Sunday night in the 510. Lake Merritt was teeming. Jimmy Patterson was playing his Bob Dylan. On Grand, the lines were extra long for some movie I've never heard of at the Grand Lake Theatre. I go to movies now about every other Olympics. Don't get me wrong, I love movies but movies are like flying now. Both require heavy lifting. I'm not in the mood.
It's getting late now. And hotter. Naturally I have no air conditioning. It's a wonderful life. Lamb shanks. Tommy's Joynt. Tourists. Fake boobs. Weather reports. Bad, fake hairpieces. I need a shot of whiskey. Hurry up, bartender.
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