"Meteorillogically, I had never seen anything like it."
CHEAP EATS In weather, it was daytime and I had to go to work wearing a scarf. And gloves. On the bridge, traffic was red so I was running late, and I had to pick up dog medicine for the family dog along the way, El Cerrito.
I didn't know why the traffic was so bad. Time of day, it didn't make sense. But when I came out from under the upper deck into Oakland daylight, there was weather. And so maybe that was it. Traffic and weather together, as they say on the radio.
But this is the paper.
So I never seen anything like it: a skinny strip, almost a funnel of darkness, raining relatively hard on the MacArthur maze, and me, and nothing but blue skies on either side. It was a beautiful day behind me, in San Francisco. It was a beautiful day in downtown Oakland, and in Berkeley. Even in Emeryville, the skies were blue.
Meteorillogically, I had never seen anything like it. Just a ribbon, a ribbon of inclement weather.
I went to work.
We're back in San Francisco! It's getting nigh Christmas time! And while neither of our fathers broke his neck whilst climbing down the chimney dressed like Santa Claus (like that poor Phoebe Cates in Gremlins,) Chicken Farmer has bad Germanic-Romantic associations with this time of the year and I myself was raised by a Master Humbugger. But we're trying to get some of that seasonal spirit, despite our instincts' best efforts to the contrary.
Alas, the world is against our holiday cheer. First, Google maps told us that ceremonial shrubbery could be had at the corner of Dolores and 15th. Liars. Instead of actual trees, we found only a banner pointing us toward Mission and 14th. Four blocks away.
But by the time we got there (six hours later, what with one thing, then the other) they were closed. 8:30pm.
Next day at 1pm, closed again. Just a lot of expensive trees behind a locked chain-link fence. And no hours posted. Sons a bitches.
Anyway we'll probably have a tree or at the very least a green pillow propped in the corner, wrapped in lights, by the time you read this. In the meantime, I've got some bad news: no restaurant this week. We ate so much and so poorly as a touring rock band (Like us on Facebook! Listen to us on Bandcamp!) last week that I had to put my fork down: I am hereby and forthwith abstaining from all alcohol, cooking oils, dairy, gluten, and anything that the internet says could possibly cause bloating. But only until I can firmly establish that my clothes fit better, and then I'll start adding things back in that I don't want to be the culprit. It might take a few weeks though.
Actually, if anyone wants to submit a review in the meantime. . . Chicken Farmer isn't here right now but I'm sure she's fine with the idea.
Until one of youse steps up though, and by way of keeping to some sort of a format, I do have some sports news. Terry Francona is now managing the Cleveland Indians. I think I like that. At least I like it better than the thought of Bobby Valentine managing the Cleveland Indians.
The Indians also got Didi Gregorious (my favorite name in professional sports this year), Jason Donald, and Drew Stubbs from Cincinatti. And all they had to do was give the Reds $3.5 million in return. And Shin Soo Choo. Which is to say: $3.5 million. (Ba dum bum!)
But then the Indians turned around and traded my favorite name in professional sports to Arizona along with two other guys (neither of whom were Chris Perez) in order to acquire Trevor Bauer and two other pitchers (neither of whom were David Hernandez).
In other news, Josh Hamilton is no longer a Texas Ranger. He's an Anaheim Angel. Which is fine by me, since I dislike both teams and therefore can continue to root against Josh Hamilton.
OK, maybe one food-related thing, since we have space. Voodoo Doughnuts in Portland. There's one on either side of the Williamette River, but the "Too" in Buckman has shorter lines. We got a maple bacon doughnut. I liked it quite finely, but Chicken Farmer claims there are better ones right here.
I would tell you where, but she never took me so I can't remember the name. Anyway, the Portland version was a couple of long strips of cold, well-done bacon lounging atop a hole-less, maple icing-blanketed log of fried dough. And the mystical SF version is circular and holed and apparently the bacon is crumbled and softer, so as to release more of its salty, meaty goodness into the sweet maple layer.
Either way: yum.