A Tender Mission from LA to The Bay (and back)…

From

the waves of the Valley sun, to the fog in Pismo cove, we sailed by day and  rallied our watchtower eyes upon the coming three nights of our only glimpse of a summer intermission. Better late than never…

Upon the sixth hour, pilot and co-pilot arrived in the dense landing of the La Madrona compound in Santa Cruz. After de-lacing our saddles, we commenced close to 40 games of slop-shop shoulder shots on the blood-red tattered felt. Pockets were unbuckled and spilling balls as though we were reliving instant replays of famous Schneider shits and giggles.

We sailed into town to take the old Red Room by storm, yet it was different. Booths were misplaced, credit was denied at the well, and the jukebox seemed to wax nothing of familiarity in it’s new position. We left quickly and quietly after 1 drink. Somehow, our little group ended up at a fancy candlelit table where my beloved pilot was scorned for burning plastic straws in the candle on the table. They slapped her wrist, yet I kept quietly to myself and twinkled loving approval into her eye. Fire-starters are great party ensembles. Our night ended swiftly and we fell into the deep mountainous pocket for a rest before heading further north the next morning.

After a well-priced breakfast at Rocky’s in Felton, Pilot and Co-Pilot headed into the digital valley where trees are more present than keys in certain parts along the residential ridges. I tugged the Pilot’s dress to stop and see some family members in the cat’s town and we fancied their hospitality for an hour or two before heading toward our final stop: San Francisco.

It was close to 4 and we rumbled over the yellow Stanford hills and into the block covered humps of the San Francisco skyline. Buildings of all colors came together like “peace on earth”, but Pilot and Co-Pilot had already forgotten such dichotomies of yesterhours. Long-Fingers advised us to park along the top of Cathedral Hill aside the incline of a giant pope’s hat. We trekked what Pilot had originally said to be 20 blocks. It was more like 7, with a bit of sweat. We settled at Long-Fingers’ domicile for an hour or two before enjoying a well-cooked feast from Lahore. Soon after, I parted from Long-Fingers and Pilot to meet up with my beloved Paulber couple. They were a block up in the Tendernob with a nice place to lay my head on air. They prefer to sleep in the closet and I don’t question their decisions because, quite honestly, it was a perfect fit. That night we trotted along the Hemlock after visiting the middle Schneider and his lover. It was a night filled with wind-chilled walks and of course, shoulder hustles on the Hemlock’s green felt.

Sunday morning. We woke when we felt right. We packed our day in a black bag and headed west to the Mission. The Bart was dark and swift as we arrived into the depths beneath the Civic Center crossing. My mind was in a bubble as we poked between landmarks that were cleaner than my own pointing fingertips. Paulber and Co-pilot, the true citizens. We returned our library books and contributed to a pound of peaches at the Slow Food Festival before heading off deep into the path to Dolores Park.

Oh, Dolores. You cradled our heads with soft grass and gave us awkward Cuban rap music as a soundtrack to the festivities around us. The city was alive with colorguarded buildings and kites that pierced the skyline of downtown in the distance. We were young and proud of our freedom to travel wherever we felt. Pilot arrived and we both winked at our accomplishment to get out of lala land for just a pinch. A burger joint that killed my appetite and a bit of window shopping later, Paulber and I returned to their Tendernob where we shot dice and ate a feast fit until passing out from a $10 box of Sapporo. My eyes were happy to close shop early on such a sightly day in the city.

Monday. MUNDAY. Pilot and Co-Pilot must go. We left early before the dogs could bark at our tailpipe roaring down the 5. Oh god, what an unsightly drive. The smell of fast food and cow shit really made me feel blessed to be an urban child of new. Our return home was mostly silent and sleepy. We were dirty kids that were happy to be dirty from all the right reasons. When we unlocked the backdoor of our brickhouse haven, we felt happy to be home, but I was sad that our journey was over already. Back to work. BACK TO WORK PEOPLE! Until next time…

You can see the full photo album at my Flickr.