Occasionally this tea totaling “friend of Bob” comes across a spot with a bar that looks so good it just cries out, sit right down here my friend and I’ll make it very easy for you to get a fine buzz on.
Velasco’s in Petaluma reminds me of a joint I used to go to in Baja Mexico called Rosarito Beach Casino where I managed, way back in my old drinking days, to achieve the worst hangover of my life banging back shots of 10-year-old tequila and fresh squeezed limes out of ice-cold salt encrusted glasses.
After the third or fourth round the world was a happy bouncing ball of pure delight with me, funny me, intelligent me, good looking me at its center. And as these things so often go, after number six or seven or eight that ball pretty much exploded as the lights flickered and fizzled out in the ebony black Mexican night.
Next day sun was so painful that walking along the beach I had to close my eyes against its glare and just peek out every now and then to be sure I didn’t step on any of the horse turds that littered the sand.