Why I Love San Francisco

First of all, every time I drive in, there's that moment when I come over the hill and the living, breathing picture-postcard presents itself: the blue blue bay dotted with white white sailboats; gray Alcatraz butch and foreboding jutting out from the ocean like a bony stony criminals nightmare; the green green hills of Berkeley off in the distance nestled in politically correct splandour; the City gleaming and gleaming, or shrouded in magical mystical movie set; the Pyramid scraping the sky; and of course the Golden Gate opening up and welcoming me into her Baghdad-by-the-bay bosum. I never ever ever get tired of being bowled over by her,, soaking her in and lapping her up.

Then there's the business busy bees bustling past the hustlers and the junkies, the wounded and the weird and the wise and the and the wacky and the wonderful on Mission Street. Try as they might they haven't been able to shit the freaks out of downtown yet. And I love that.

Here's what happened the other day when I went into San Francisco. Fisrt I ate crazy spicy curry at some die in the 'Loin. Six bucks for a huge plate with garlic nan. Yum to the maximum. Then as I was leaving the restaurant I got to watch my favorite meth addict/homeless dude defy death as he engaged in his hobby: running right in front of speeding steal vehicles and somehow managing to avoid getting smashed to smithereens.

Then I went to Tartin Bakery on Guerrero, sat outside with my to-die-four hot chocolate and world-class macaroon, and watch the world go by as I worked on my new book.

Then I went to the Marsh Theater had worked with David Ford, the greatest one-man show director on this or any other planet. We had an amazing session, he is the Zen Master/Yoda/Obi-Wan of theater, with a word or gesture he tells you not only what's wrong with your shit, but how to fix it.