Sunday, Shameless Sunday

I woke up around noon. My head felt like I had someone's knee growing out of the back of it. The sunshine was slicing through the venetian's and stabbing at my eyes. I was alone. I was dirty. I was mustached and hung over in the worst kind of way.
I needed to not be alone so I called Dempsey. He was at kinko's and would be right back. He somehow convinced me to ride with him all the way down to 24th and whatever god awful street Pop's is on. "Bloody Mary for him, I'll take a Pabst." That helped a tiny bit. "How about another, this time, make it a Hamm's." Three or four of those took the sting off.
We got hungry. It was maybe 3:00pm. There was someones breakfast on the bar. I think it was the bartenders. We ate the waffles, toast, and eggs with our fingers.
There was talk of fried chicken. It didn't take much convincing on either of our parts to make the decision to ride all the way down to Third Street and 22nd. I knew of a great soul food cafe down that way.
Hard Knox Cafe. We were sort of drunk when we got there. Our eyes were bigger than our stomachs were, but neither was a match for the hangover I had. Dempsey got the three piece fried chicken with a side of spicy beans and rice and mashed potatoes and gravy. I got the smothered pork with the mac'n'cheese and the mashed potatoes and gravy. The plate came out. It was about the size of my torso. I think there was a whole pig on it...but I don't know, I couldn't see a face through all the gravy.
We at. We kept eating. We ate some more. And then we dared each other to eat a little bit more. After that I think I passed out in the booth.
We rode all the way down third, painfully full. We barely made it to Yerba Buena Garden. I hit the grass and that was the end of me.
I woke up just as the sun was going down over the skyline. It got cold real quick and this food coma on top of my hang over wasn't making me any more comfortable.
We, once again, hopped onto our bikes and headed for home. We pulled the tv out of the closet, popped in some Indiana Jones and fell asleep on my bed.
That my friends, is one version of the perfect Sunday.