misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

If you had called me this past Sunday around 5:06 P.M. PDT, you'd have found me walking west on 24th street, past Church street, right next to the open windows of The Dubliner, standing over a homeless man without trousers, in my previous hometown of Noe Valley, San Francisco. This was the first time I had made this walk in over four years, since taking a one-way flight to New York in March of 2004 to sleep on Taj's couch. Since that day, I hadn't once thought of The Dubliner, or Han's Hibachi, or Bell Markets, or any of the other places I had whittled away the majority of my twenties. I have a habit of leaving behind memories when I leave somewhere, to prevent any feelings of regret or nostalgia. I've found that to be essential when moving to a new place, where you don't know anybody. You have to focus on the here and now, not what used to be. But within seconds of returning to the impossibly steep hills of 24th street, up past Valencia and Guerrero, bitch-slapped by the frigid winds as it tumbled down from Twin Peaks, dragging the blinding sheet of fog behind it, it all instantly returned. There was Happy Donuts, where i'd get a boston-creme chocolate donut before hopping on the J-Train to Charles Schwab. There was Hahn's Hibachi, where K-Ro and I drank fresh pitchers of Newcastle Brown Ale. There was Casa Mexicana, which Lee puked in front of after I out drank him. There was Bell Markets, which Lee entered to get some napkins after he puked because I out drank him. There was Peasant Pies which is where I had to put Lee on my shoulders after he passed out after getting napkins after puking because I out drank him. Every storefront held a new memories that bounced inside my skull like ping-pong balls in a plexiglass lottery machine picking numbers before Jeopardy!. By the time I ended my walk up on Grand View and 23rd, after calling Mother Nature an old bitch in a bad wig for making hills that steep, I had relived six years of memories.

So could I move there again?

No. The memories that overwhelmed me this past Sunday are unachievable again; I have to respect them, leave them undisturbed, not step over their graves. The memories were made in a different time, with different people, all of whom have since moved on. To return to San Francisco would be to see a movie I've already seen, to read a book of which I know the ending. The story has been written in San Francisco, and returning will just leave me filled with sadness for what was but can't be again. I'm not in my twenties; I can't have a bbq at 315 Grand View with Lee, Sy, P, Rosie, Neal, Bart, Age, Amanda and Taj; I can't drive my green GMC Jimmy that smelled like dog to the Safeway for a bottle of Grey Goose; I can't outdrink Lee. Wait, actually I guess I can still do that last one, only know I'd have to be in London.

The memories in San Francisco shall remain buried for eternity; they will hang from the rafters of my mind, given proper respect. From NYC, the next move will be somewhere new, again. Always new. Find the new experiences and memories that make somewhere special, when my mind has no room for new ones wherever I am.

That said, keep in mind that Menlo Park would technically be new, or Walnut Creek, or Marin. I'm just talking about 24th Street in Noe Valley on San Francisco, particularly the Han's Hibachi. There's only so many memories a mediocre Korean BBQ joint can give a man, even with fresh pitchers of Newcastle. Sorry Hahn.