Down in the Bunker

I headed up to the bunker the other night, supposedly to play cards and meet Baby G's brother—a user-interface designer who was visiting from Brooklyn. Baby G likes to assemble some of the tech dudes who live in and around Mill Valley for special occasions like that, and I get to tag along if I promise to behave and ask some, but not too many, questions. I also agreed to bring the beer, and Wolfenstein, a serial entrepreneur who lives in Sausalito, emailed that he'd swing by Pizza Antica to pick up a couple of Pepperoni and Mushrooms. But a half hour *before* we were supposed to head up the mountain to the bunker, the brother from Brooklyn Reply-ed All:

"Gentlemen...sorry to say I will not be joining you this evening in the bunker as I am off to LA."

"Still on?" I emailed Baby G, thinking he might want to bag it.

He replied: "Of course!"

I picked up Wen en route and we climbed the windy road, already dark and hopelessly twisted (the road, that is), to baby G's house, which sits perched like a golden eagle, overlooking all of Mill Valley and further beyond, San Francisco. G's place has to be the sweetest rental in town. I'm guessing 5,000 square feet and it has a pool house and one of those infinity pools, with the no-edge that bleeds off into space. Stone steps descend from the pool to a large, mirrored room beneath it: This is the legendary bunker.