TWO WORDS: live, and learn. I, Lord Exister, am not only a master of the former but a virtual virtuoso of the latter. I have learned and learned. It's mind-boggling, the number of things I have learned ... walking around, listening, sitting still, just sitting there, being alive. And alert, like chickens.

The secret to my educatability is to never remember anything I learn for longer than, say, a week. Most people (and most chickens) learn a thing – such as why light from stars and streetlights wavers from the horizontal perspective, or where to put eggs – and then they know it. Not me. I learn and forget like eating and shitting. Same thing, over and over. Oatmeal, for example.

So ... you would think a sieve like me would write stuff down, or take pictures or get tattoos like that guy in that movie. In fact, I do write stuff down, but then generally I can't find my notes. It's not that I'm old or anything; turned 39 May 21. Which isn't even middle-aged, if you plan on living to 160. I'm a young sieve.

So ... it's a lucky thing for me, this column. Because it's a weekly column, I have no trouble remembering where and what I ate, even if I misplace my notes moving to Sebastopol. And then, because I also chronicle in passing the given week's major milestone events, such as moving to Sebastopol or my 39th birthday, they become public record and entirely researchable.

When'd I get married? January 21, 1999, Ana's Restaurant.

First, last, and only home run? September 5, 1999, Cam Huong.

Attended poetry reading in cup and cleats? Why, that was just last week. This week there was no poetry reading, but I did go out to eat just before baseball, and dressed for baseball. Learning from last week's mistakes, however, I went out to eat at a baseball restaurant, where everyone else, for all I know, was also wearing cups and cleats.

Home Plate, in the Marina. Lombard Street. It's a hoppin' weekend brunch spot for the neighborhood yups, I hear tell, but I was there at three in the afternoon, Sunday afternoon, and the place was almost empty. I might as well have smelled as bad as I smelled last week; there was no one there to smell me.

The food, none of which was hot dogs or beer or peanuts or sunflower seeds, was damn good anyway. I got buttermilk pancakes with strawberries, bananas, blackberries, and raspberries ($6.50). Plus a side of homemade pork and dill sausage patties ($2.50).

I also got, without even asking for it, a really great little scone or roll or something, warm, with butter. Home Plate makes their own scones and muffins and rolls and stuff. Sausage. Jam. In fact, a little thing of homemade jam came with the pre-meal scone – not that I could tell you what kind it was, but it was good.

And good's what matters. Check out these other good-sounding things from the specials board: steak and eggs with potato pancakes, scone, and roll ($9.50), roasted-chicken omelettes, and all kinds of other fancy-falutin' omelettes and scrambles and whatnots, all for 6 to 10 bucks.

There was lunch stuff too, but I forgot to even look at that part of the menu, because I was very much in the mood for breakfast, time of day notwithstanding. Pancakes. Three fat ones smothered with bananas and berries. The bad news was that only three of those berries were black ones, but the good news was that they were the three biggest blackberries I've ever seen. You almost had to cut them up, they were so big. As for the sausage: small, kind of dry, and somewhat greenish (on account of all the dill), but very tasty anyway. The thing about sausage is it's always good. Sometimes it could be better, but it's still good. It's sausage!

Home Plate, home of homemade sausages and baked stuff, is a great place for an afternoon breakfast. If you try to go during a normal time, especially on the weekend, you'll probably have to stand in line. It's small and homey, with pretty little fresh flowers on all the tables, paper place mats, and framed photos of this slugger and that one. Musial. The Babe ...