tiny colored houses on a hill. we enter the city destroyer on the radio. city music he says. tts a trip down market and angled streets to city lights. warm air bright sun. up hill. down hill. to our place we meet our friends. last night still lingers in pain. i have a hangover. chinatown crazies seedy dark small streets of tenderloin there are so many lost and hidden places in san francisco. its rough to play here, parking’s a bitch. but i love this city. this grand small city where i was born. they say all of life is a coming home. and it is. it is. and then day turns into night.
weary on wine, we went to mission district to pick up lauren’s friend...dancing at a club someplace. its the one with the pink sparkly door and fifty people outside. we wait against the wall around the corner, heat pouring out from barred windows. burns, me, shawn, crouched like bums, cross-legged on the sidewalk. a guy with a backpack comes up to us, “you want some whiskey?” “no thanks man.” the friendliest corner. i liked him. to our left up the street a bit were latinas in ill-fitting tight black clothes and down on the right, hipster kids in plaid, black tights and vests, oxfords, hats. lolie and mike come and sit with us. a girl from norway, miata, comes and bums a light says how much she loves the city, doesn’t want to go back to oslo. a guy comments on shawn’s shades. our harmonica plays some dylan and others lolie and i shake our noses at each other bouncing our hair. warm night, indian summer.
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