Yesterday afternoon I traipsed home in a buzzed glee of Seahawks victory. Sound and defeating, similar to the destruction of the Pittsburgh Bumblebees, shells smashed, juices flowing, wings twitch legs are going, don't get sentimental, it all ends up drivel, a Radiohead song to sing. Disassembled at Foxborough in Masshole glory, earning me another well-won bottle of rum and a few bragging rights.

The afternoon light fading, Lake Merritt lighting up orangeyyellow and the days scant warmth leaving quickly. Reached home in time to kiss my girl, wash my face and run out to meet the buyers of Wheaton. Oh Wheaties, bless your heart, I sold you for five hundred bucks to a World of Warcraft-looking warlock named Oliver and his beautiful drunk redheaded girlfriend. They were sweet and I liked them from the first

To Wheaton: May you embrace your new family and live a long life across town in Alameda.

To Andrew: ... Payback's a motherfucker.


Happy hour on the patio...


Andrew's brain on Wild Turkey...


Socked in on the Golden Gate...