There were times you would find me curled up on the ground late at night on some doorstep of a business or somewhere in a dark spot in San Francisco. There are nights drinking that I call "a good time" and some that I'm not quite sure what happened and others that I have no other word for it except "Legendary." It was on the some of all of those nights you would sometimes find me curled up on the cold concrete in a quiet place on the streets of more than a few towns. I even look forward to some of the spots. I would get to the point that I was done with drinking, done with the people I was hanging out with (at least momentarily), and done with the overstimulation of the lights and sounds of the bar. I'd wander out into the darkness (or brightness, depending on which part of town the evening had taken me to) and start roaming the streets. An alcove behind a theater, a recessed doorway in The Mission. Places where the cops went past if you kept qu...
Where logic goes to die and the bar business begins. Observations on the hustle, the jokes we tell to survive it, and why the 'whatnot' is usually the most interesting part. Rick Dobbs is cocktails and chaos. Equal parts.