Up too early. No drilling noises outside this morning but I
read one paper and then another and eventually decide I should head down to the
gym, admitting that I’m up. Even at 5:00AM
there were already two determined fellas in there with me. And you never want to bother considering much
what anyone else is doing, but you do and what their doing always looks smarter
and more effective than whatever it is you’ve decided to do.
One information session
after another. Even if it is interesting
and this is, it takes rarefied commitment to keep one’s mind absorptive. A proper diversion happens when a friend
calls and I’m out on Tennessee Street talking about Vasily Grossman and what it
was that Krondstadt really showed us about Trotsky. The afternoon sun cuts mighty through the cold
San Francisco afternoon bay breeze.
Called from one
event to another, headed to a club. But
that changed and we were heading to the restaurant, one that I remember so well from when
I was a young father. It is certainly
the most consistently wonderful Greek dining I can recall enjoying outside of
Greece. Sixteen years ago I went there
with my boss at the time who ordered up a fine spread, dining, laughing, making
points, listening. What an evening. My boss rose, suddenly and said he’d have to
leave. “John, take care of it and
expense it, would you?” “Sure” says I,
reluctantly. It was three times what I’d
ever paid for any dinner in my life.
A pasta dish. I really didn’t need it. The meat others were having looked rather
splendid. This and we left with a choice around how to get home. We chose to walk it instead of one more
Uber. We proceeded passed a venue. Do you know I saw Van Morrison and Aretha
Franklin this place, right here, says a friend. It was
the greatest hall in those days. The
Financial district gives way to this new SoMa sizzle-atop-shank
aesthetic. Upstairs I bravely cracked my
book, took out my contacts and awoke with a start as the book fell off to the
left with a thud.
Tuesday, 02/27/18
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