Woody Grab Bag #006
Strange adventures of young men in San Francisco, market memories, a walnut elephant, and recognizing City Cemetery.
Young men of my acquaintance who were in the habit of voluntarily placing themselves under the influence of alcohol, had often surprised me with their recital of their strange adventures.
—Flann O’Brien, At Swim-Two-Birds
We’re all here today but Kevin. He died from cancer on the day Donald Trump was elected president and everything has been pretty bad since then.
Kevin ordered Guinness when we were out, a performative gesture of Irish pride we allowed him to indulge in, but we smirked. He also liked the Celtics, Larry Bird, and because his father once owned or worked or drank at the Cork and Bottle on 24th Street before the yuppies came to Noe Valley, he talked of buying a bar like the ones with our rented stools on the Irish Mile: O’Shea’s, Ireland 32, the Plough, Abbey Tavern, and—oh no—O’Keefe’s. IRA posters and hunger strikers. Bobby Sands staring at us from under his blanket. The Guinness foam made a buff brother on Kevin’s mustache that he didn’t notice.
It was foggier then.