Sundays

Sundays in San Francisco are similes like a great white shark setting upon a seal at Pier 39 spraying blood and gore on all the hapless passersby, grimaces ever so slowly being turned upside down. Sundays are for spending all of Saturdays money and toasting to Mondays hangovers. Sundays are for sitting in the new place in Soma , questioning the legality of my living there. Sundays are for stints in the mission, Italian car chases, endless games of sorry and the loss of our mustachioed friend who walks the moonlit streets of Polk , all the weight on his left leg, heavy Bolivian accent. Sundays are sombreros and party socks, hooking up the laptop to the stereo and daring the neighbors to call the cops. Sundays are missed movie times and loose change get lost in the jukebox. Sundays are soliloquies written out in Monday mornings over bright lights awake only because the liver is an incredible organ. Sundays are shooting pool with my baby and shooting the shit with my best friend. Sundays are skipping the bus to take a cab. For sifting through endless hours of Internet radio, singing along with the rainbow connections. Sipping slowly to soak it all in. Savoring every last drop. For saints the lords house has happy hour specials, $5 fernet and buckets of hanger 1. Sundays are bloody mary's and being bloodied from too many mimosas stumbling away from lime in a blur of badlands and boy bar. Staggering around like being lost at sea, not for a moment hesitating to make sure of not getting things done. Laughing, cheering and spending. Stopping, shopping and canoodling. Cannibals can't carry on as crazily as we do. Sundays are when we smile.