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It’s cheese sandwiches all the way down

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'."

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  1. I envy your organic Ethiopian. We just got the non-organic kind round here.

    And Alicha Watt and a glass of mead sounds soooo good right now.