My San Francisco Days
My definitive San Francisco moment occurred in 1993. I was walking east on Polk Street when I encountered two young transvestites smoking weed in front of a burned-out building. I was drinking a Kern’s Nectar and after taking the final sip, I tossed the bottle into the trash. One of the transvestites put down the joint and said, “Hey man, don’t you recycle?”
I moved to San Francisco two weeks after the 1989 earthquake. The day I moved into my apartment I noticed a spray painted message on the sidewalk reading: “I don’t believe in Bob Hope.” I understood. This was the land of Jack Kerouac, Jerry Garcia and the Zodiac Killer. Alternative was the norm.
The first person I befriended in the city was a Berkeley Linguistics professor who loved archery, Hungarian cuisine and Japanese bondage. My revolving door of roommates included an animal taxidermist, a stripper, a funeral home cosmetologist, a William Burroughs impersonator and a narcoleptic house painter.
My first job in the city was as videographer for a local bar hosting a Monday night talent show. Homeless men were recruited just before showtime with promises of food and drink if they sang pop songs or attempted absurd dances. The proprietors sold semi-ripe tomatoes for 50 cents apiece that audience members hurled at performers.
