This week would have been a crazy one at work without any extra juice. But, juice we had. With folks out of the office, other folks communicating according to what I might be calling the “Brubaker Principle,” as in what we have here is a failure to communicate, and prep going on for our thrice a year pre-board jam, it’s just been a laugh-fucking riot.

My real stress was trying to get the document I needed to get done, done, so I could take tomorrow off with impugnity. Tomorrow is all about the priorities.

Conan O’Brien is visiting the City by the Bay, or some other suck travelogue name for San Francisco. Soon as I heard, I got my fingers walking on over to the website to try to score me the tickets.

Tomorrow, I’ll be queuing up with my golden ticket like email at the Orpheum Theater and waiting to see if I get nosebleed or floor. Don’t really mind either way.

The important part is I won’t be working, and I’ll be catching some live telebision taping and comedy.

I’m happy we’ll be catching Patton Oswald on the big show. Better than yesterday’s “comedian” Robin Williams. I know folks who like him, but he annoys the shit out of me, and that was before comedy stories taught me that he is kind of a dick and a half, stealing and other bad comedy mojo.

Best of all, I’ll get to catch a bit of the kind of mythology that still gooses me a bit when I stroll through San Francisco. Bob Weir, as in one of the founders of a little known band called the Grateful Dead, will be the musical performer with his band RATDOG.

I’ll be one of the old farts thinking back on youth going to quite a few Dead shows or Weir’s other band, Bobby and the Midnights, wearing Indian print, wrap around skirts and practicing the best technique for the biggest hit from various bongs.

The details are foggy, but I know the evil psycho chick I lived with post-college but new from junior high loomed large in the stories and the Dead years. I’m also pretty sure she lost her virginity to one of her older brother’s inappropriately attentive, hippie-esque, faux-Eastern philosophical buddies.

Even at 15, I had a pretty heightened radar for creepy lechers, and the buddy fit the bill, pseudo-spiritual spouting or no. Seriously, dude, if you’re 20 and you got a couple of 15 year olds listening to albums on your hi-fi stereo equipment, it ain’t rocket science to read the signs.

Gratefully (get it, pun on the band, ha ha), greatfully, I dug the free pot and vodka drinks over the manly overtures.

Better yet, I dug the irony. The psycho girl’s hateful mother, truly a hateful woman, often dropped hints that I, what with my single mom and all, was leading her angel astray. Not fucking likely. She spawned the whore, and Pat, my mom, raised a painfully shy nerd with a late-blooming sex drive and nothing to particularly prove.

Back to the present day, I did learn life skills back then that still serve me well. Last weekend, after walking around in shorts all day, I needed a quick change of costume to eat in a nice restaurant in the chill night air of San Francisco. M. doubted my ability to succeed in the quick change.

Days spent at the beach before concert nights at the steamy, sweaty, torturous Cape Cod Coliseum taught me well. If I could slip off a wet, sandy bathing suit and switch to underwear and tight jeans in the bucket seat of a ’69 Ford Maverick, while drunk, you can imagine the cool, dry, well-fitting change in M.’s car was easy