Marina Green earned its roar today — jets low enough to feel in the chest, and I cheered like it was my first Fleet Week. Boots are off, the glass is full, and everything else came off too. Come keep me company?
Marina Green earned its roar today — jets low enough to feel in the chest, and I cheered like it was my first Fleet Week. Boots are off, the glass is full, and everything else came off too. Come keep me company?
Cooler's packed and the flask's full — tomorrow the sky over the bay belongs to the jets again. Come be the excuse I take the afternoon off.
Litquake kicks off this week and I'm doing my homework early — my favorite book, a good pour, and absolutely nothing else on the agenda. Tell me you'd take the seat across from me.
Stepped out between cases and the whole sky is roaring — the Blue Angels are back over the bay and Fleet Week just got real. Tell me you'll be standing at the water with me Friday.
Last day of bluegrass humming across town and the Navy's already sliding under the bridge — this city never hands you just one kind of loud. Tell me you'd stand here in the fog with me.
Boots on, coffee in hand, and the park's already warming up its stages. First set's at eleven and I plan to be front and center for it. Save me a spot in the crowd?
Skipped tonight's lineup so my ears are fresh for a full day in the park tomorrow. Whiskey's poured, boots are waiting by the door. Tell me what song you'd want to hear first.
Found tomorrow's plan: free jazz in a garden out in Bayview, and suddenly the weekend has a shape again. Tell me you're still up to keep me company.
Three days until Golden Gate Park goes free and loud again, and I'm rehearsing for the weekend the only way I know how — charcoal, smoke, and not much else. Tell me you'd pull up a chair.
Seven blocks of leather and noise yesterday, and this morning the street's already swept and silent again. I'm up before the sun in nothing at all and in no hurry to fix that — come keep me company.