Postcard from the Left
Dear San Francisco,
You’re very cute, but you just aren’t for me. I’m not sure there’s anything beyond the cuteness, y’know? And I can’t believe you go about quaintly (some say smugly!) grinning while holding my two friends hostage. But people are weird–maybe they secretly like it!
That drat illness I brought with me meant that I did not imbibe a single alcoholic beverage while under your care. They say Mexican coke tastes different than American coke. Who knows how Jameson might have tasted within your vernal borders? The elixir that’ll fix ‘er. Could be it would’ve made the people look better. Cause Franny, they didn’t look too good! You’re got most of Square World in cold storage here. Do they sleep in angled slots like bottles of wine? And I know Square World dudes oak the fuck out of me. But that’s at most a minor amusement, and more often an annoyance. And the others, the youth-in-Asia, are like a farm team for the Major Leagues of Hipness. (Home team? Er, Williamsburg, natch. What can you do?) They have training wheels on their skinny jeans! It would be cute if it weren’t so gagagag!
Well, I’m running out of room and maybe it’s considered unpatriotic to write in a swirl around your address, or to make my handwriting get smaller and smaller so that you have to get your Vera Wang bifocals out of the desk drawer. I have nice pictures in my head of your architectural eye-candy, and nice feelings in my veins from getting to hang out with my friends. But I gotta shove off, babe. It’s better like this. Someday you’ll understand.
Just one drink
and I’ll fall down drunk
Yours,
Heft Look
Leave a Reply