You Move to San Francisco:
SAN FRANCISCO fucks you. It fucks you hard and you don’t know if you’re being raped or about to come. Actually San Francisco lands you like a sunny soft pillow of happy variety and committed, loving denizens. You are convinced, after two years of unemployment and library haunting, to throw your dice down the alleys of the Emerald City. Across the bay from the future headquarters of the Star Trek Federation, in Gayland McWeirdoville, in the intestines of the fog noodle belched from the arches of gold, you are welcomed, assisted and snuggled up to. This changes things a bit. As you sink into it, bent at both shoulders and sagging under the anxieties of risk, the pustules framing your neck begin to shrink. The first hour out of your van you are caught in a yuppie video remake of Bel Biv Devoe’s Poison for a group of white people’s internet community chuckle factor. Then you are sent into the belly of a cult, to sleep for a week, suspended twelve feet above the ground in a silver teardrop trailer hanging over a pirate radio station and a long since ejaculated underground political movement. Here you finally dive into the banjo, luxuriating in the near constant sunlight bathing the beehives kept in the back yard for their sweet, faggy San Francisco honey. Because bees are gay in San Francisco. Rockabilly bands play in the halls to live studio audiences and you make crepes that no one will eat. The secret trait of the cult is made clear after a day: old men fucking young women because they live with a local celebrity who ran for mayor once and makes a living creating bizarre events, surreal barge, boat and bus tours and writing comically narcissistic books. It is a sheer dictatorship. There is always one omega dude around who builds shit and janitorializes for a crappy room in the back and he almost never gets laid. The kitchen is gorgeous. And yet still no one will eat your crepes. The bathroom walls are covered in the unbought multitudes of leftover indie band vinyls. And no one seems to like your banjo playing either. You are constantly bombarded through the thin, made up warehouse walls with the sounds of old men groaning in pleasure as young women attend to them. Sometimes you are even asked to sit further away from the walls. Even though that’s where the only chair is. Somehow you think, it must be a part of their sexual fetish to make you suffer while they skydive and skip and swirl through decades of age difference. Plus they are all Apple Iphone obsessed. Brand loyalists to boot, you hum as you strum among the bees in the sunny, sunny back yard. They kick you out in a week. Your pustules are almost gone. At night, your convincer, squat and curly haired and bespeckled and giggly, takes you out dancing. Or forces you out dancing, as you have nothing else to do but listen to inter-generational sex and search for the correct and magical combination of behaviors to please the cult leader of your abode. Blues, Salsa, Jazz, it’s all a bunch of dark rooms and loud music you barely like full of sweaty men and women staring at you wondering if you’re the one they’ve been searching for but only for like five seconds then they stop staring because it’s obviously not you. She wears you like a nice jacket she just bought from the store but with the tag left on and the receipt handy in her purse. Her girlfriends ooh and ahh and giggle and snort. You drink whiskey and go home to your suspended 1960’s dad’s bad idea. This ends up in you jerking off a lot in a trailer, but this is familiar because of all that time you spent and will spend in the motorhome. You are also quickly thrown into better shape by all the fucking hills and bicycling. End week one.