Sunday morning coming down: … from yesterday’s exertions.
I woke up, got out of bed and biked over to Cafe 1428 for small and large coffee, bagel toasted with cream cheese and croissant and the Chronicle. Yes, I could have walked: It’s less than 300 yards from my building’s front door. But I like the feeling of riding across the parking lot that separates the corners of 14th and Alice from 13th and Jackson, and using my bike’s front basket to carry all that stuff instead of juggling two hot cups, a paper bag with food and a newspaper. Plus, I can put my iBook in the basket and check my mail while waiting for the folks behind the counter to handle stuff. (I spend too much free time online, mostly because I can. And I can quit anytime I want, honest.)
Of note in yesterday’s Chron: an editorial about Harry Bridges, who led a dockworkers’ strike back in the day and opened up the S.F. unions to blacks.
So, after sipping and noshing, I dragged some trash down to the basement, came back up and vacuumed the place. And we were off, over to A——-‘s for food. I got limes for a party; Ankita got vittles for her get-together. We stopped by Arizmendi’s for pizza slices and a couple of boutards. Then home, to cook and relax.
Finally, I got off my duff to go to my party (stopping on Alice for a brief encounter with Mr. Bill — see above — as well as a pause at the corner of 14th and Broadway to hear raised voices declaiming in rhythmic meter about how they were “not down with the lockdown” — a protest against the Alameda County supervisors who are proposing the creation of a youth SuperMax facility in Dublin, Calif., and a chance encounter on the 12th Street-City Center BART’s Richmond platform with local singer-songwriter Ezra Barany — he launched into “Ticket to Ride” and I couldn’t resist keening a little McCartney harmony to his Lennon melody; apparently he’s moving to Paris with his wife for a year to teach English starting in mid-August). The party was great fun: great music (I’d never heard the Velvet Underground’s “What Goes On”; I did do a double-take when Curtis Mayfield’s “If There’s A Hell Below, We’re All Gonna Go” came on, right when Mayfield’s voice comes up and says “N—–s!” at the top of his reverbed, amplified voice), great food and excellent people I haven’t seen in months. Hours later, I went home to drink a few S—– N—– Pale Ales, interpret horoscopes and blather about all sorts of stuff with the wife’s friends.