My weekends have been making me happy but they don't make good copy.
It's Sunday evening. I'm sitting at Prism Cafe. Seven other laptops — various Macs and a rogue Dell — are open and aglow. Something wickedly, mournfully trumpety, chat and polyrhythmic is playing overhead. There may or may not be a glass of pilsner at the table next to me. Across the street, two dryers should be spinning my dark clothes to a warm, soft finish.
Saturday started with good quality A. time, including doro tibs at Cafe Colucci (yummers). After bidding her good afternoon, I crawled into San Francisco through thick clumps of weekend traffic (after lucking out and noticing my damn-near-empty gas tank and finding the only West Oakland pump that hadn't heard about the recent price dropoff) and made it to a co-worker's boyfriend's birthday party in McLaren Park. A dozen years in the Bay Area and I'm still finding parts of the city that are completely new to me. There was beer, cheeseburgers, friendly volleyballage, ex-co-workers become friends-of-friends materializing out of the ether, dogs running around and loose jams on acoustic guitars.
Then most of the partygoers adjourned to a warehouse loft/practice space off Bayshore Boulevard, where a bit of jamming with members of Sweet Crude Bill became a rousing 80s-pop acoustic singalong. I'm going to say the peak came somewhere a Journey song that, until I remember differently, was probalby "Don't Stop Believin'."