Carlsbad Pizza Port, which I’ve started calling CPP.
Went out for a swim today, first time in a long time that I’ve done that. Felt great — water the perfect temperature. Maybe I’ll go in every day this summer, again, like a few years back.
A pint of porter for $3 is not bad. Three dollars.
I know I liked this place a lot better when it was a mellow little brewpub/would-be Cajun cuisine, though as I’ve said in the past it’s obvious they sell a lot more now. None of the pizzas I’ve seen sitting around look in the least bit tempting. The occasional callout: “GREG, YOU HAVE A PIZZA READY. G-R-E-G.”
If someone would drive me out here I could just keep on drinkin’ Porter till I couldn’t walk. As it is I can see my typing skills deteriorating. There’s a fair count of women and a lot of flaky bohemian-looking dooodz at this bar.
Still not entirely sure what my schtick will be at Burning Man. Still thinking about it.
July 1, 1999.
Another night, another pint. This time I’ve got an order of wings coming — I wanted it too much last night. Much cooler to watch surfers on the tube than baseball. Got myself a pitcher to go home, too.
Thems wuz good. And no buffalo wing waste on my shirt. One thing I consider when I come in here is that I always look like a slob. But what the hell.