When They Play the Funny-Looking Instruments, I Laugh and Laugh

Don't get mad. Get even.

That means sometimes in the coolest and most collected of moods you will need to punish yourself. It's the principle of the thing. No mercy.

Right? Right!?

Last night we were late for the symphony. First, it was my wife's fault -- and I can live with that, tormenting her in righteousness for weeks to come -- but then it was my fault and you can imagine the degree to which that made me pout.

We left ten minutes late. That was my wife's fault. She wasted valuable minutes making a delicious supper. (Stop me before I cook again!)

But the traffic on the bridge was not so bad, and we were just south of Market St. at 20 minutes till, which gave us plenty of time. Then traffic locked up. I had not checked the pan-SanFrancisky musical schedule. Didn't know there was an opera right across the street from the symphony. Cars just locked up at Van Ness. Honk honk honk. Some guy on the sidewalk waved his arms as if he were conducting.

Con brio. Honk. Honk. Honk.

It's a quarter after eight and we are still sitting there by which time it's now my fault. Finally we break free, abandoning the line at our usual parking garage -- which is full; people are lined up waiting for someone to leave.

And it's mutual, two speaking as one: Damn you. Damn us. But then no. No.

Damn you dark forces that have made us both responsible for missing ... whatever. I didn't check that either. We buy these tickets in a clump. It's all beautiful, right? I mean, why else would they do it? These people are paid professionals. Anyway, we both decide as one flesh that even though we could probably wander around and find a parking space and catch the second half of the program no we won't.

We drive down to Fifth and Mission, near the Chronicle where I used to work, which location stirs my loins with memories of glory. We park and go looking for dessert because -- I'm adapting, adopting and improving here -- Chocolate does more than Milton can/To justify God's ways to man.

Lots of kids wandering around the 16 movie theaters at the Metreon. Nothing makes you more content with your childless and grandchildrenless state than a streetful of pimples on parade, each youth more loathsome than the one before.

We are feeling better every minute. We walk down to the Sheraton Palace hotel, wondering if the Garden Court is open. It's not, but we notice the menu outside the bar mentions some nice desserts. In we go and discover back there beyond the bar the nicest coziest little restaurant.

Moshe the Waiter. Charming. Kurt the maitre d. Charming. Napkins, plates and cutlery. Charming.

You may say, given our mood and our need to find in our shattered plans some compensatory moment, that had we stumbled upon a derelict hot dog cart serving Broast Rat on a Stick we would have grappled it to our bosom and turned it to our joy.

Well, duh. You want us to sit there sniping at one another because we missed Mr. Ludwig von Brahms or whoever it was?

We are fucking happily married here. Don't make us come over there and laugh at your grandchildren, those little pimps.