San Francisco is my kind of town.
I sat at a window table at the Voodoo Lounge Black Magic bar at the corner of Van Ness and Lombard, watching couples on dates, with regulars bouncing to and from, with a friendly bartender in a Giants cap and shirt being the straw that stirred the social drinks. And I was there only because it was across the street from the hotel and I was plum worn out after wandering Fisherman’s Wharf all day.
And by the way, this city has far too many joggers and fitness freaks and maniacs swimming in the Bay. Don’t they understand the pressure they’re putting on their hearts? I’m just a concerned guy, that’s all.
It’s just extremely cool for me, being downtown in a city I sort of know, throwing money around like I have some, and realizing and not minding that I’m extending retirement by another six months because I’m overheating the credit card, which is fine because for a measly 10 or 11 days, I’m in a New York state of mind, San Francisco-style. I can’t explain it exactly, but you, being the smart person you are, might get what I’m trying to say.
Yes indeed, San Francisco is very cool. And if you’ve never been here, why not? And if you say you can’t afford it, it’s the lousiest excuse since Andrei Kostitsyn said he wasn’t getting enough ice time and Scott Gomez complained he wasn’t getting the breaks.