|Saint Stupid Day 2014.|
Well, you have the option, then you have to enumerate what it is you actually ate.
Normally I have a salad for lunch, but I mean that in the loosest possible definition of the word.
Still I like to think I get more vegetables than the average FiDi dine-and-dash salary worker.
|Buffet at Café Med at 201 Pine. A saag curry with falafel, hummus, pita, fried white fish with a Mediterranean salsa, mesclun, beet salad, cucumber salad, mushrooms, taboulé and more of that hot sauce.|
|Café Med at the office.|
I was wondering when I was going to start sleeping normally, if that was a thing that sober people do.
|The key to the city.|
Wake up, drink coffee, work, drink more coffee, lunch, try to stay awake through meetings and introductions and meetings and whiteboards and trainings. Go home, avoiding the bar. Eat dinner. Daily Show, Colbert Report. Go to bed sober, wonder if it wouldn't be easier with just a few whiskies.
The Up Band shows an average of one hour and thirty seven minutes of sleep each night, forty-one minutes of deep sleep.
|Shrimp dumplings, meatballs, fried chicken bits, mapo tofu, romaine lettuce, sprouts, mixed veg, beef stew (all fatty and tendons, yum) over steamed bok choy in lieu of rice. Lee's Deli on Battery.|
I allow myself a near-beer or two at Lucky 13 to feel like a normal person.
|I have a thing for seafood salad. Krab salad. With a "k."|
|That beef stew... $7.95/lbs is too good a price. Steamed broccoli with chili sambal. More krab salad.|
My friends take me to the Russian River for my birthday.
|Café Med sometimes has passable CTM. Underneath is (rather lean) lamb meatballs. Cucumber, tomato, onions, avocado and lemon juice tossed in baby spinach with tahini.|
|Meat samosas at Café Med.|
Good days, bad days. I fly to Portland, I take a long train ride home.
|The most recent lunch, a hot mess just like I was all day.|
Got up to bike in early - Bike To Work Day - and proceeded to just trip all over myself all day long like a friggen amateur. In front of my new cow-orkers, in front of my new boss: a Director of IT who looked like he belonged outside a SOMA bar bouncing underaged girls and hangers on.
Of course, I was an actual bouncer (on occasion). Maybe I should re-evaluate my career? I felt like it by the end of that day.
No. Bar work is good, honest work. And I have no business working in a bar.
Not any time soon at least, I hope.
So I pedaled to the gym after work, past bad drivers, right turns in the bike lane, people who can't signal, pedestrians crossing in the middle of the road.
I passed a model, a "booth babe," in candy red stiletto heels with 6" spikes and a matching mini skirt passing out flyers at Moscone Center. Nearby a more sensibly dressed body-man, a large Pacific islander in black khakis and a windbreaker, made small talk and kept a hand on a two-way radio.
I regarded her with sympathy and smiled weakly as I pedaled past, a chill in the wind that whipped her straight black hair.
I didn't go to the gym to work out but to soak in the hot tub with the old men, the Chinese ladies, the tattooed neighborhood dudes - Latin boxers whose other qualifications probably remain best unquestioned with tattoos whose meanings I deign not to ponder.
I left and made my way out of the garage, a semi-cavernous lair resting atop the buried ruins of Seal Stadium, and into the evening air, now thick with mist - as if Karl himself were giving the city a hug.
I stopped in to Mission Hill Saloon and was greeted with a bitters and soda and an array of buffet food.
Buffets, I can't escape them.
It was NFL draft day.
"Drafts," I thought to myself. "I write a blog. I should write something."
I ate some chicken wings, watched the Portland Trail-Blazers fall behind the San Antonio Spurs in the first quarter and walked my bike up the hill in the mist.
I guess writing's healthier than drinking.
|The view from the Yahoo Flickr offices.|
75 Battery Street
San Francisco, CA
201 Pine Street
San Francisco, CA