 |
| Vesuvio Cafe, San Francisco |
So...we ate at
The Bookhouse Pub last night. I'm so elated to have been able to drag Ian there since he's not a big fan of the place. I'm not exactly sure why, but he blames it on the crowd that goes there. Being an ex-elitist snob of a hipster myself, I don't exactly get any particular vibe from the cats that gather at that watering hole. There seemed to be a mix of youngish people, both of the employed and unemployed variety. There were the obvious "Urban Outfitter" clad kids with their striped shirts and uber-now boat shoes huddled by the bar waiting on what I can only imagine was the Schlitz beer that had apparently run out on tap. There was an interesting group of lesbians who appeared to be tourists or perhaps they had just realized they stumbled into the wrong bar but decided to stay because they were hungry. Whatever, I don't so much mind crowds and their agendas anymore if I am keeping good company and the lager is flowing. However, that statement becomes null and void anytime Nascar, WWE, or right-wing Republicans come into the mix. Our waitress had the correct amount of facial piercings and the proper haircut to be working at this type of establishment. She managed to gain a little extra bitch cred when a slovenly outfitted guy with bedhead came in to speak with her and she firmly ignored the poor sunovabitch. We had the tastiest burger since we experienced Farm Burger. Which, goes beyond words of goodness and is ranked high in our hall of fame in the meat department. The kids who own MJQ also own the pub, and I'm not sure if that has anything to do with Ian's resistance in going there, but thank God for ScoutMob. We are both huge fans of Jack Kerouac and the beat poets. I told him one of the main reasons I love the Bookhouse is that for some reason it reminds me of the Vesuvio Cafe in San Francisco. I'd have loved to be a beatnik in those days. Fuck hippies and Woodstock and the sexual revolution. I'd much rather have smoked French cigarettes in a tiny speakeasy while hearing art fags recite poetry and pick me up to take me home to listen to jazz music from classic Italian cinema. I would rather have been a bohemian with a lust for the art of stringing sentences together in a clever and syncopated fashion than getting naked in a big field listening to Creedence Clearwater Revival or Jimi Hendrix. But hey, that's just me. I'm just a 20th century girl, made in the 80's, trying to live out her adulthood in the travesty of a generation where identity is something you wear like a t-shirt.
Thank God the pressure is off. I'm 31. I'm gainfully employed and working on starting a family. I've had my successes and although I once shopped at the thrift store for too cool for school threads, I'm much happier shopping at Banana Republic these days. It's all good. I've still got it.
