Linger on

On Mission Street, cooking fats could be smelled everywhere after sundown, and the dirt puff sleeping bag brown crowd was replaced with drunken car owners. I wasn't carded anywhere, and as I result I do not remember the phone call I read this morning that I had made between 11:30 and midnight.

I get drunk and the street is the encrypted side of a key. I look into the contorts while pacing past, and if one is dark and wide enough, I pee. Haight and Masonic, a store selling sixties counterculture to tourists has printed signs aimed at our empathy, asking if we would like a free public toilet outside of our home or place of buisness. Tonight, I would like that.

Three times smoking, high ranking skanking, and visiting friends. Dolores park was full, a bicycle powered music festival was MC'd by a guy who proudly told the crowd he was living on a friend's roof in an 8x9 tent on Florida street. The band who lived below him, he said, were a real neighborhood gem. The garage from which they practice is a little hole of curious neighbors and post-work beercans.

Working class affectations are in style. PBR advertisements feature loving remditions of the can as made by young artists. A beardo talks about how cool is friend is for cultivating a tan specifically on his left arm. Cigarettes are getting cheaper and more chemically. We are in opposition to the older, more established whites, in our wild and liberated consumption habits.

I stayed hot the whole day. Lots of parties, early June, warm San Francisco nights. I saw Italian esoterica this morning, I guess because of the euro cup. Harpers was finally available in the library when I wanted to read it.

I got home and at some point around the phone call I don't remember making I put on a DVD of Sonic Youth videos. I remember Kool Thing and Dirty Boots and Tunic. I turned it off when my stomach gold turned to yellow. A gallery of local artists had a series of cocks in landscape, cocks in watercolor, cocks in cocks. The gallery was located at the end of the credits in Superbad as well as on Valencia street. They kept the cocks with other queer art in a space they called the back room. Outsider identity is the only identity.

I'm spending money too fast, but my brain feels a cool looseness like a windshield defrosting when hit with warm water. Cracked out. I got a ride back through the city just as the fog slipped over the Eucalyptus topped dog shit factories.

Today, free show at Stern Grove, which I'd rather call Rock Creek Park, with the guy made famous in this country by his association with Wes Anderson and David Bowie and blackness and Brazil.

Also Aimee Mann, but I don't have the patience or the curiousity to find out what that name means or how many of each letter to use when writing it.

I also want to check out the hippy hang out in Golden Gate Park, when I'm dressed appropriately. Earning less than the 8,000 dollars necessary to warrent taxation seems like the only morally responsible way to live when ones society only pays for death.