All right, so I got pnuemonia, and I'm told it's in bad taste to call it the Jim Henson Death Disease. And if YOU try to choke down Munch's mother's recipe for matzoh ball soup, you'll understand how bad these past few weeks have been. Errrgh. Mrs. Munch mave have been a saint, but she was no chef. I don't even LIKE matzoh ball soup. I had to smuggle them out in kleenex.
Gahhhhh, so THEN, I had plane tickets, and I already paid for them, so damned if I'm NOT gonna go ahead and use them, so despite it maybe being a bad idea, I went to Oakland to visit my cousin Goatboy. Yeah, Goatboy. He plays guitar - don't ask.
Anyhow, long story short, Goatboy hitches in from San Diego, I fly into Modesto, rent a car, and we drive into San Francisco.
Now, I'm still kinda sick and dizzy, so not at the top of my game. I ask after we walk a few blocks, "Hey, you remember where we parked?" He says "Yeah," and we head on our merry way. A few hours and a few beers later, it's time to go. I say "So, where's the car?" and he answers "In the garage."
You do see the problem, right?
We circle the greater downtown SF area for two hours trying to find the exact combination of the bank machine he used, the coffee place I stopped at, and the McDonald's where he used the restroom. It's cold, dark, and kinda wet, and no offense, but San Fran has parts that really smell like ass.
We finally bribe a cabbie $20 to take us back under the municipal parking sign that I remembered - and lo and behold, 3/4 of a block away, there's the car. Needless to say, this did NOT help my illness.
To make matters worse, Goatboy needed to get a doctor's excuse to skip work at the guitar shop the next day - and it turns out, he WAS sick. Bronchitis. Contagious.
We couldn't even order a pizza over the phone - we sounded like obscene callers.
After that, the flight home in coach seemed like luxury, except for the screaming babies. I was even happy to see Munch and his matzoh balls for a moment.
