I’m almost living a thing called hope.

First, there was the gala weekend b’day celebration. Friday night, my night, we were done with a romantic-ish dinner by 8:30 p.m. You know, with us being elderly we got the “early bird special” rocking, right?

Or, it’s ’cause we left the toiling daytime gigs early. I just couldn’t face a Friday night celebrating my greatness before the big hand was on the zero and the little’n at least on the nin-o. So, in this neighborhood land of the elderly and the upscale and the wine crowd and the coffee houses, we ducked into the one pub. I-rish-y it was, despite the name “BBC.”

Beyond the Sam Adams on tap, they had a chubby guy at the bar in a sports jacket hailing from Brighton in the old Bay State and talking excitedly about Dice K. Apparently, we crossed a time space continuum into Beantown-esque. They promise in a couple of Saturdays in honor of the sainted Patrick and the Emerald Isle there’ll be some green beer and corned beef and boiled tubers. We shall see.

Saturday, it was M.’s turn with a parade in SF in his honor. OK, him and the whole continent of his ancestry, the lunar new year and a golden pig.

I have a few pics, which I plan to organize soon, but we missed a good deal of the parade. We let it pass us by. (Actually we walked a long while parallel to it hoping to find a place to cross. Our dinner reservations lay on the far side of the streaming humanity.)

Dinner was the specialty of the house that must be ordered at least 24-hours ahead at Shanghai 1930. I love dining pre-WWII.

The old dude who brought the whole specialty rig made a point of ‘splaining to me the delicacy of our dining pleasure. He was intent on telling the story to me. Could be I was the chick, or could be I was the caucasian.

He seemed disappointed that modern improvements, like sanitation and health codes, dampened the authenticity of the dish. The story with Beggar’s Chicken is that somewhere in China a beggar either stole a chicken or villagers gave him one. It was whole with feathers and all, packed in mud and thrown in the fire. Once the mud was baked and cracked open the tenderest and most succulent chicken came out, with the clay ripping off the skin and feathers clean.

Tasty. And, you know it’s a good sign on the tenderness of the meat you’re about to eat when an old dude carves it tableside with a couple of spoons.

M. got the large pull of the wishbone. Don’t know what he could have wished for, since good Chinese food on a weekend night is one of his highest highs.

Today, I finally hung a bunch of photos and whatnots (OK, whatnot is a crucifix) around and put the patio table together.

Not to mention a completely hassle-less battery exchange for the MacBook at the local Genius Bar. It would be far cooler if my computer never fucked up. But given that I ain’t never had one that worked flawless, the customer service at the local Apple Store eases the cyber pain.

Lastly, and this joy is totally dorky and largely unappealing to others, I finally fucking figured out, cracked the nut, deciphered the impossible. I found what on my harddrive has been sucking up gigabytes of space. A couple of backup volumes I didn’t realize I created or new existed. Soon as I empty my trash smooth fucking sailing.

I have more space, a balcony view with ‘lectricity and nothing holding me back from writing. Ya-fucking-hoo. I is on my way.

(Providing musical accompaniment will be one of the excessive number of shuffles that comprised the major chunk of my birthday giftage. Multi-colors for our multi-dimensional, multi-cultural household.)