Dont call it Frisco ..

The smell of weed on the streets. Talking to a crackhead on the 22, explaining why a Scotty Cameron putter is so expensive. Parks crowded with sunbathing locals starved for good weather. Mission hipsters sporting varied facial hair hanging out at Zeitgeist. Mopeds being furiously pedalled up hills that they cannot climb on their own power. Boozy outdoor lunches accompanied by Seshan's poignant pontifications. "Dressed to impress" bridge and tunnel folks lining up in record numbers for a desi sounding club event. A profusion of asian women descending on Navin's apartment for the phinal phreakout. Consuming 75 chicken wings (and onion rings) with 3 other stoned people after a night of dancing at Afrolicious. A lunch of "la cubana" in the
deep hispanic mission. Seshan's dates with destiny. Sushi platters arriving and disappearing at record pace.

These are just some of my SF memories from the last trip. I do believe that SF is a state of mind. Or many stoned minds. It may not have a physical reality at all, because it is so apart from its parent geo-political entity. Its the one city in the US where Superbowl Sunday is a non-event. Where two drink sardars will tease a tiger till it comes out of its cage and eats their friend. Where self-expression is a legitimate excuse for any freak show that you see on the street. Where you will run across a yoga/sex commune which offers a course for restoring male self-confidence (all teachers are women).

On a weekend, you can go into a club/bar, and share a joint. But a cigarette is still taboo. When you do have to go outside, you find that the police station is across the street, but you can chose to ignore them while lighting up your reefer, just as they chose to ignore you.

This is why I love this place. I can be what I am, or whatever I want to be.