Raw, adjective: 10. not diluted, as alcoholic spirits: raw whiskey.
Magical morning here in SF, basking as we are in the afterglow of one of my favorite nights, ever, here in the City by the Bay. Just when I thought I couldn't possibly love this place any more, the Giants go and win the World Series, and the people erupt.
There were flashes last night, here and there between slinging drinks like a ninja and keeping one eye on the ballgame and high-fiving happily-tipsy bar regulars, when I thought to myself: This is the kind of moment you remember, always, even (especially?) when you're 80 and decrepit and probably can no longer shake a martini with any kind of acuity. But you remember the rush, and the feeling so alive, and the community, and the people, and the bodies, and the spirit, and the vibe in the air, and the door wide open onto the bay across the street, and Edgar Renteria whacking one into the stands to ensuing jubilant celebration, and Rick the Golden Retriever running into the bar and up to the sinks in search of a martini or three, and the local news anchor and her sportswriter friend drinking at your bar, and the former mayor - Da Mayor, yes, that one - sitting there calmly, serenely, taking it all in, just a few steps away, and the foghorns blowing when Nelson Cruz swung for a final out, and Brian Wilson turning and screaming with that mouth-wide-open glee, and the pitching and the post-game round-ups and the champagne-soaked Matt Cain and the Cheshire Cat-grin on Cody Ross and the really truly unchecked joy, and the sense of belonging, and the being really truly in the center of all that heaving life, and the coming home hours later, late into the night, with horns still honking and people still driving along the Embarcadero popping up out of their sunroofs, and Coit Tower lit up like an enormous orange phallus there on Telegraph Hill,
and making it all even the sweeter is the fact that these guys were a bunch of misfits, the ones nobody wanted, washed up, too young, out of shape, you name it; but they did it, and the City's been a constant whirl of orange-and-black for the duration of this charmed post-season run, and now we have a parade and sunshine and celebration tomorrow to look forward to, and in the meantime it's Election Day and we've got a new governor on the way, and the morning is fresh and breezy and my garden's lush in spite of what the calendar says, and that's the charm of living in this blessed Bay Area climate of ours, and so you sit and take a minute and drink some black coffee and breathe it all in for a flash before the moment passes and you go on with your day and attend to the errands and the teaching and the usual routine, but it feels different today, on this day, of all, and the cable cars' windows are painted orange and black, and you ride them with a different sense of pride and marvel at the bizarre fact that this is your life, this is your home, this is your team of scrappy misfits, and you give such thanks for living here, now, enough, and the wild santosha kind of overwhelms, on a Tuesday in November, Election Day, post-World Series win, in the 94109.
I left my heart. For real. Big mad love to my blue-skied SF, and to Peggy Lee, whose earthy-sexy-perfectly-slinkily-trumpeted rendition of Black Coffee accompanied my own on this morning of mornings. To celebration.
Peggy Lee ~ "Black Coffee"