[I wrote this blog entry ten years ago (it’s 2013 now) while living in San Francisco with Larry Boothroyd of Victims Family. I was depressed. I had a hard time fitting into that place. I was often unemployed, so I would occasionally go out and wander around the city, hoping I’d meet somebody who could help me.]
Had enough of this part of town for one lifetime, so I hopped on a bus and in about 5 minutes I was over at the construction site of the new Lucas Digital Arts Complex or something. It’s supposed to be the future site of everything that George Lucas owns. When I got off the bus I could have sworn I saw Steven Spielberg ride by on a bike. There’s really a pretty good argument for both sides, even though I was probably just projecting. I walked around a bit and conspired to find George Lucas on the site with a shovel in his hands, and beg him for some kind of job. Then I got bored and walked over to the Palace of Fine Arts, which looks like something off Courisant, however you spell it. That got boring real quick, so I walked all the way down to the water, passing through some ritzy neighborhoods. Being by the water also got really boring, so I walked back up a few blocks to a street called Chestnut. I went into a bar and drank a beer by myself, and watched the Space Shuttle blowing up over and over and over on CNN. I then stumbled down the street a ways until I saw a Taco Bell. I went in and bought way too many bean burritos that were overpriced. I found myself walking in circles for the next couple hours, and ended up sitting on someone’s stairs in front of a condo. I grabbed their newspaper and thumbed through it, wondering how some people live like kings, and some people live like shit. Everyone in the Marina is good looking. Does it just come down to your looks? Does that determine everything? Isn’t that just a pattern of atoms and high tech thingies buzzing around? It seems they make for an even bigger pattern which moves your body around in predetermined patterns that are not easily changed — much like my drunken wanderings in The Marina. I had done enough thinking for one day and put the newspaper down. As I went to stand up, out of the corner of my eye I saw the names on the mailboxes in the doorway. The name I saw just happened to be the last name of my sister’s fiance’s brother, and I remembered that he lived in this neighborhood, and I ended up with the realization that I had been sitting in his doorway, still somewhat intoxicated for probably 30 minutes. I rang the bell and they weren’t home. I went and got on a bus and went home and the rest of the day must have been so lame that I don’t even remember it.