Distillations: Considering the Scales of Friendship at the Sycamore 

"What happened to us?" Shannon asked a few weeks ago. We were sitting at a table by the door at the Sycamore. "We used to have a thing going where we'd get together every couple of weeks. And then ...?" Then we didn't talk for three years. We just stopped connecting. Or rather, I stopped returning emails. We bumped into each other at a BART station a couple of weeks ago, hugged, and pledged to finally reconnect.

I've had friends telling me to go to the Sycamore for a long time. This is Alaric's favorite bar — she says she once stayed here for a full 10 hours, just drinking and chatting — and I can see why. The Sycamore is a great chill space with just enough energy to keep you going. Paintings of skulls decorate the red walls, and the small front room leads out into a sweet little back patio, which is intimate and fun. There's no mixology pretension; I'm not even sure they serve mixed drinks. Instead they have a great beer selection and a solid wine selection, and if that doesn't do it for you then you just can't be satisfied.

I ordered a Delirium Tremens, an old favorite. We caught each other up a bit on our lives. She's got a boyfriend now. "Congratulations," I said.

"Is that something to be congratulated about?" she asked. "I mean, I'm so happy now, but I was so happy when I was single too, so, I don't know."

I, on the other hand, now spend even more of my life writing than I did back then. "Is that all you do?" she said.

"Yeah, pretty much."

She quickly changed the subject to Burning Man. It was less than a week away, and she was going for the first time.

Even after reading the survival guide, even though her boyfriend went last year and is putting her up in his RV, even though she's arriving late and only staying four days, she had so many questions about what to expect, what to do, how to prepare. And she knew I'm a regular.

I'd already been interviewed for two documentaries and a book about Burning Man, quoted on The Atlantic's website about it, and written an SF Weekly cover story about it. God did I want to talk about something else.

But it was her first year, and this is something that you do for people who are going for the first time. You sit and provide answers that will be blindingly obvious once they get out there and see it. Plus I owe her: The last time she saw me, she sewed me a cape for 2011's Burning Man. I got a lot of use, and a lot of compliments, out of that costume piece. And then never told her.

It turns out that was a pivotal moment for Shannon: She's now making capes for tons of people she knows, especially Burners. It all started with me — the only one who never sent her a picture of himself in the cape, or even said thank you.

Instead of telling her how much good her cape did me in the desert, I told her in the Sycamore, "I want to ask you for a bunch more for 2015."

"Yeah? More capes?"

"A whole rainbow of capes. One for each day."

"That's amazing!" she said. "Absolutely!"

This can't be right. I ignore someone for three years and then get ... more capes? Is there no justice in the world?

Not when it comes to friendships. The scales never balance. We like who we like, and we take the opportunity to play with the people who inspire us. Just because.

Shannon is a vegetarian, and loved the bean burger she ordered. I went the all-meat route — pork belly donuts and lamb sliders. The food at Sycamore is exceptional and affordable. I can totally see why someone would come here. I just can't figure out why they'd come here with me. I'm obviously a terrible person.

But Shannon left convinced that I'd given her some useful wisdom about Burning Man — that I've told her something important and insightful. I stayed behind and ordered a Crabbie's alcoholic ginger beer, trying to figure out what it is people think I'm doing that's worth putting up with so much crap for. Could it be blindingly obvious?