Yesterday we made another bonzai run to the city. We took the girlchild and her boyfriend and dropped them off with a friend who is interning at an art gallery and we went to the Mission District and were bad.

Limon-  Peruvian fusion. Lime walls and brown floors and orange tiles and dark-skinned polite men in black carrying fresh, crusty bread and pitchers of water and the food.
Crispy calamari and octopus with chipotle aioli.
A simple, rustic filet of some white fish on a bed of spinach and perfectly roasted potatoes in a rich sauce that you had to sop up with the crusty bread.
Pork tenderloin in a cabernet sauce with mashed potatoes topped with braised carrots and pickled red onions. I almost died. It was perfectly plated in a deep bowl-shaped dish that held everything together and maybe I did die.
We were there for lunch, maybe four other people in the whole joint. The hostess was on the phone the entire time taking dinner reservations. Non-stop.
Then we cruised the mission. Junk stores and thrift stores and second-hand furniture and lots of collections of mid-century sleek Jetson’s furniture and lots of places that collected the freakiest shit we’ve ever seen. Giant heads, leather covered torsos, vintage porn, stuffed dog/wolf/vampirebeasts, gigantic floodlights, medical cabinets, rocket-ship themed executive desks, creepy paintings, all jambled and smashed together in dark crawlspaces and basement rooms…and the people. We walked out of one joint and the wife says she thinks there was some LSD in our calamari. That kind of place. Those kinds of people. Faces that shimmered and glowed and seemed oddly misshapen or too holy or too fucked up to be real.
Folks lettin’ their freak flags fly.
When we couldn’t take another step or see another stuffed skunk mauling a naked boy mannequin, we headed for The Slanted Door.
Ah, me.
Cocktails and raw oysters and fresh springrolls and more oysters and my lord amighty.
I am a slut.
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Picked up the hella stoned youngsters in the Haight and drove home through the night. 
In ‘N Out double-doubles on the way back.



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One of those days you put in your little rucksack to pull out on some bittercold night when you are alone and soulsick and can taste naught but ashes.
Some small thing to warm the soul.
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Here’s to you, friend. Tell you what, why don’t you guys all run out sometime this week and see if you can’t top this day. Then come back, tell me everything.



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Namaste.
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