Hot buns and Carl's Jr.

After showing plenty of buns and getting down and dirty at Mr. Smith (a club somewhere around Market and 9th in San Francisco), I headed out looking for some chow. It was late, and the first place I found was a Carl's Jr. Not ideal for Hindus, but screw religion. I was hungry.

As I walked to the food slaughterhouse, I comforted a worried soul on the horn and asked her not worry about my drunken state. Truth? I was worried because she was more drunk, and she can drink like a gutter.

At Mr. Smith, I pocketed my glasses before hitting the floor. They got jammed, and they wouldn't open. All I could read on Carl's Jr.'s menu was "low fat" and the cashier ran the register. $7:03 was the bill, whatever dude. So I was getting "low fat," something that looked like a chicken sandwich.

Ended up being a burger with tomato, spinach and no bun. The lettuce jammed on both sides was the bun. Looked freaky at first, I'm like "what the f*** is this?" Turned out, it wasn't that bad. I was a bit wasted, but I know a burger when I taste it. Burgers really don't need buns.

With a surgery next week, my original plan at Melanie's place (she's back from Banda Aceh) wasn't to go to Mr. Smith. Then S spurted out that a DJ named "Omar" was spinning, and I thought Desi (Indian) music instantly. "I'm coming," I said. Fark it, who cares. Go for it, let vodka mix with the doctor's medicines.

Mr. Smith's a pretty good place, give it a try. After numerous vodka shots everybody started looking like a Desi, but I saw a substantial Indian crowd there.

On a larger scale, Mr Smith was good for me. An uncalculated move in the ongoing transition with a lot looming, this was a good antidote.

(Postscript: Drinking is NOT COOL. It is dangerous, can destroy lives, so avoid drinking if possible.)