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The bartender gave me my bill. His name was Ollie (short for Oliver, of course), which is just about the cutest name I can imagine, and it made me smile. There are still some things in these dark winter days that can light a spark in me. And, to be fair, as soon as March rolls around, and dead things start to grow back, and the wind is perfectly crisp and gently cloying, and you are sitting in Dolores Park with the sun on your face and a pug comes over and licks your hand while you listen to Neil Young's Trans on your iPod, well, this place is pretty wonderful. "Nashville meant nothing to me," I will say to San Francisco. "It won't happen again."
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