"I want coffee," I said, in no uncertain terms. Still they ended up parading me down the street for a half hour, pointing out nondescript office buildings in San Francisco's deserted downtown area, before we arrived at some newly-renovated ferry building. I dashed into a Peet's Coffee store and guzzled a double cappuccino just before psychosis set in. Then I was raring to go ... to the rotating restaurant high atop the Hyatt Regency hotel!

I have never been in a spinning restaurant, but my hangover record really should have precluded me from downing mojitos and beer while eating some kind of fish paste on crackers. But I refrained from ralphing, even during the interminable ride back to the dreaded East Bay.

"East Bay." Ha. To call it that implies there is water somewhere nearby. Not so. Every drop of moisture is pumped in, probably stolen from some more deserving location, like Reno. And it was hot there. It was supposed to be a "dry heat," but it felt like molten lava after the unearthly pleasant Seattle summer climate (I know, it rains there most of the time; I lucked out).

But I don't wanna make it sound negative. I was only there for a couple of days, so nothing was intolerable. It was good to hang out with my Dad and step-mom on their own turf. They took me to several wineries in the area, which is the East Bay equivalent of bar-hopping. You're not supposed to overindulge at a wine tasting, but every winery we entered had a table full of loud, red-faced Californians in cabana shirts. My Dad kept buying bottles of wine, and we took one and sat outside and had a picnic. I gotta hand it to 'em, the only thing better picnic-wise than sneaking beer into the park is having a picnic on the grounds of a place whose sole function is to produce alcoholic beverages. I wanna have a picnic at the Brooklyn Brewery!

So whereas Seattle alternated coffee and beer, this leg of the trip was all about wine, wine, wine. I'm surprised they don't have an extra tap on the sink that runs Zinfandel. I was also proud to learn that the enormous TV they own doesn't work, so they just don't watch TV anymore. They've been going to a lot of parties thrown by their weird San Franciscan coworkers, which reportedly involve even more drinking and even the availability of pot cookies (!). They swore they weren't partaking of any psychoactive drugs, but they spoke so wistfully of the experience I have to wonder. Perhaps next year I'll see them in pictures from the Folsom Street Fair.

So the visit was fun and a little eye-opening, but I was still quite pleased to get on that plane and head back to Brooklyn finally. The highlight of the flight was the connection from Denver to LaGuardia, when I had the honor of sharing the Coach section of the plane with ... Kate Pierson and Fred Schneider of the B52s! Woo hoo! I don't even know if the band is still together (tho according to their website, they appear to still be playing, good for them!), but there they were, struggling with their carryon baggage like any old tourist. When we got to the baggage claim area I found myself standing right between them, but despite my excitement at being surrounded by some genuine rock innovators, I couldn't think of anything to say. I was possessed for a moment by the spirit of that old SNL sketch with Dana Carvey and Sting in the elevator ("... Rrroxanne ..."), but I refrained from mumbling lines from "Legal Tender" or something. Probably just as well. I know New Yorkers are supposed to stoically ignore celebrities, for some reason, but what was most disconcerting is the fact that nobody else on the flight seemed to recognize them. Sure, Kate didn't have her hair done up in her signature beehive, but Fred looked pretty much like he always has, if a little older. Either way, it was nice to have them accompanying me back home.

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