Danish Treat, Sunday Service, and Bruno Kimchee

[Good things in the last week:]

[1.Korean barbecue in the Inner Richmond with Sean, Dennis, and a bunch of northern Europeans who didn't know what to make of it, but who loved it anyway. Also, that 20-year-old, babyfaced Dane didn't hurt none.]

[2. Chi-chi pizza, salad kicked up several notches with help from the Thai joint nearby, and Prosecco over in Sean's part of the beautiful green forest. (While it eventually ended up being good, I could've done without the Financial District-Tenderloin-Safeway Heights-Dolores Heights-Western Addition Death March in the pouring rain. Tempers frayed to the breaking point until my whiny piehole was stuffed shut with enough food and wine. Isn't that always the way?) Watched for a second time the brilliant recent South Park parodying 300: Les Bos v. Persia. "Scissor me, Xerxes!" Brilliant.]

[3. A couple of low-key dinners over at Dolores House. Rare is the week that doesn't feature at least one of these, but I have to throw it on the list. It's so good to have a home, even a part-time one.]

[4. Being in charge of the Dog Bruno Friday and today, and taking him into work. Charlotte's out of town for work, so she's got all her friends to take shifts with the dog. The old guy who hangs in front of the liquor store nearby was so happy to see his dear friend again. (But...see below...)]

[5. Accompanying Allen to Lafayette on Saturday. He had an appointment that left me wandering Mount Diablo Boulevard alone for an hour-plus. For my Santa Barbara readership, the boulevard exactly splits the difference between Calle Real and Coast Village Road. Hard to picture, I know, but low-impact suburbia has probably been perfected there. A nice change of pace.]

[6. Church on Sunday. Yes, church, and not Glide, either, which while spiritually uplifting to say the least, lacks the rigorous liturgical mumbo-jumbo and stuffy spirit with which I associate the Chris-tee-an experience. Instead, I met a few friends at St. Mary the Virgin Episcopal in Cow Hollow. Why, when I self-identify as agnostic only to avoid that smugly certain atheistic air? Well, my friend Donald, a respected professor over at St. Mary's College was giving a talk on Jerusalem and the role Christians there might play in the Mideast peace process. I'm probably not allowed to say why, but Donald knows the subject - every time someone goes on about the irrelevance of the Catholic Church in the modern world, I think of Donald's secret, seen-it-all smile. He gave a fascinating talk: the historical background, his experiences over a quarter-century, and his recommendations (basically, that J-town should be an international city, administered by representatives of the three Abrahamic biggies rather than Israel or Palestine, while also serving as the de jure capital for both states - one presumes they'd do a lot of their de facto governing out of Tel Aviv and Ramallah or Gaza, respectively. The two-state road map seems pretty crumpled up right now, but one may always hope...)]

[Careless heathen that I am, I did get something out of the church service as well. For the first time, I understood the intimacy the service creates between the true believers and their God, especially during the Eucharist. (Three years of self-imposed Lutheran Sunday school were wasted, I guess.) I actually got goosebumps during the climactic recitation of the Lord's Prayer. If nothing else, the Anglo-Catholics know their theatre. I have clergymen in my family tree, and have no doubt I would have considered the profession if I'd lived in a different era.]

[6a. Instead, it's the present day, and I knew going in that there was going to be a post-church brunch, with way too many mimosas. I didn't consciously plan for the post-brunch barhopping with too many vodka-crans. Let's just draw a curtain in front of the spectacle of my sloppy ass as it made its laborious way home that evening. Fun times, though.]

[Bad thing this week:]

[1. OK, so for old time's sake, I took the Dog Bruno up to McKinley Square park up there at 20th & Vermont, right where the REAL crookedest street in the world starts. Everyone there knows Bruno, since Charlotte used to take him there every day when she still worked at The Place Where I Work. He goes nuts, chasing the other dogs around in a state of pure canine ecstasy. Friday he humped a lovely gray male lab (we've always known he's One Of Us), whose owner gave me that "curb your big gay dog" look.]

[Today I tiredly watched his spastic running, occasionally tossing a stick that he seemed more interesting in chewing apart than bringing back to be tossed again. I turned my back for one second (the views up there are amazing), and immediately heard some child holler "My baaaall!" Uh-oh. Bruno had dashed up to some five-year-old girl in what passes these days for a pinafore; snatched her soccer-size ball; and was running around with it, feinting and jumping, teasing her while she cried. Her mother alternated between reassuring little Ashley and glaring at me.]

[I knew shrugging and saying "he's not my dog" wouldn't cut it with a woman who dressed her daughter like that. With a sigh, I proceeded to chase the Evil Hound From Hell around the park. "BRUNO!" (I have Charlotte's intonation down, not that he listens.) I would prise the ball from his strong jaws for a second, only to have him grab it again an run away, a devilish gleam in his fiendish eye. At one point, I lunged, he ducked, and I ended up on my ass on the none-too-dry turf. "BRUNO!"]

[One of the onlookers commented, "Yeah, that's one thing about Bruno"; she didn't lift a finger to help, of course. Meanwhile, Ashley's wailing inconsolably, and the dog's running around doing victory laps. I finally managed to get the damned ball away from him, and handed it back to the child. "It's all dir-ir-ir-tyyyy," she sobbed. "And wet!" You're welcome.]

[I applied leash to collar, gave Ashley's mom an apologetic look, and marched Bruno right home. He was trotting - no, prancing - the whole way, satisfaction emanating from every cell. "You are a BAD dog, Bruno," and similar had little effect on the evil beast. In fact, he just grinned more widely as I called his Mommy 3,000 miles away to tattle. She laughed, and asked if he actually popped the ball as he apparently did on another recent outing.]

[I'm thinking about calling one particular eatery I visited last week, just to inquire. I know the rumors of unorthodox meat use are untrue, racist, and wrong, but I'm wondering if they might make an exception in this case. Bruno wrapped in a lettuce cup with a dollop of kimchee wouldn't surprise that Danish boy, I bet.]

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