IT'S SNOWING IN SAN FRANCISCO
On the agenda for today: visit Kerouac shrine in the basement of the public library, where ON THE ROAD is displayed like the Shroud of Turin. Find out where they've stashed David Ireland, brilliant artist, white hunter, and old friend whose health is letting him down. I can not leave town without visiting the old man. Then? I don't know. This town is as comfortable as an old pair of faded, ripped jeans, with KEEP ON TRUCKING appliqued on the knee. If I wasn't so entrenched on the east coast I'd seriously consider packing up Paris and Nicole and heading west. Hell, I could find a storefront and open up Christmo Gallery again. If I could only hunt turkey in Golden Gate park I'd be here with camo on.
Last night it snowed downtown. We had just stepped out of the Apple Store where Monasita had showed her short HECKA SLIDE SHOW to a packed house when the tiny ice crystals filled the air. It was magical. The last time I saw snow in SF was 1976 in my backyard on Green St with Luscious. That time we went up to Mt. Tam and sledded all day. I made a crusty snowball and winged it at El Prof. (who now wants to be referred to as The Miestro). I wish I had a dollar for every time someone wanted a name change in this blog. Sorry Prof. Maybe if the price was right. We'll talk.
Well, we continued towards the car, El Prof., his girlfriend- the statuesque Scrumptuous, and myself, tongues out catching snow flakes. Then it was back to El Prof.'s place for a little TV, fine wine and take out. It's all so fucking civilized here. I like it. On the way back to the Bunker I gun the Neon and catch air on Leavenworth St. The car fishtails when it hits the wet snowy pavement and heads instinctively towards North Beach. Alcatraz twinkles out in the bay. The Transamerica Pyramid pierces the night sky, a monument to 70's optimism- like Bush's rug. I pass a trolley car and the tourists, huddled against the cold, look on with dropped jaws as I speed by. My NY license plates bear witness to my driving ability, splattered with pure SF street slush. I'll show you how to drive in the snow mutherfuckers.
In the morning the sun is shining once again. There's no evidence of the previous night's blizzard in town. The bells of the churches of North Beach toll. The young hipsters and old beats share the same sidewalk. It could be Amsterdam or Brooklyn or even Austin on a cold day. If it wasn't for that flock of bright green parrots dive bombing towards my head, I could be anywhere clean, urbane and politically aware. Then I see a face from the past coming towards me, pulling a shiny saucer, no bigger than a pizza pan on a frayed string. It's the artist Dale Hoyt. We make eye contact and both stop dead in our tracks. "Dale?" "Christmo?" After some catching up I ask where he's going. "Mt. Tam." he says with determination. "sleigh riding." Maybe the cats can fly out to meet me. That's me hugging Dale's neck on that saucer rocketing down the mountain into Mill Valley. Just like old times. Maybe I should look up Luscious.
Last night it snowed downtown. We had just stepped out of the Apple Store where Monasita had showed her short HECKA SLIDE SHOW to a packed house when the tiny ice crystals filled the air. It was magical. The last time I saw snow in SF was 1976 in my backyard on Green St with Luscious. That time we went up to Mt. Tam and sledded all day. I made a crusty snowball and winged it at El Prof. (who now wants to be referred to as The Miestro). I wish I had a dollar for every time someone wanted a name change in this blog. Sorry Prof. Maybe if the price was right. We'll talk.
Well, we continued towards the car, El Prof., his girlfriend- the statuesque Scrumptuous, and myself, tongues out catching snow flakes. Then it was back to El Prof.'s place for a little TV, fine wine and take out. It's all so fucking civilized here. I like it. On the way back to the Bunker I gun the Neon and catch air on Leavenworth St. The car fishtails when it hits the wet snowy pavement and heads instinctively towards North Beach. Alcatraz twinkles out in the bay. The Transamerica Pyramid pierces the night sky, a monument to 70's optimism- like Bush's rug. I pass a trolley car and the tourists, huddled against the cold, look on with dropped jaws as I speed by. My NY license plates bear witness to my driving ability, splattered with pure SF street slush. I'll show you how to drive in the snow mutherfuckers.
In the morning the sun is shining once again. There's no evidence of the previous night's blizzard in town. The bells of the churches of North Beach toll. The young hipsters and old beats share the same sidewalk. It could be Amsterdam or Brooklyn or even Austin on a cold day. If it wasn't for that flock of bright green parrots dive bombing towards my head, I could be anywhere clean, urbane and politically aware. Then I see a face from the past coming towards me, pulling a shiny saucer, no bigger than a pizza pan on a frayed string. It's the artist Dale Hoyt. We make eye contact and both stop dead in our tracks. "Dale?" "Christmo?" After some catching up I ask where he's going. "Mt. Tam." he says with determination. "sleigh riding." Maybe the cats can fly out to meet me. That's me hugging Dale's neck on that saucer rocketing down the mountain into Mill Valley. Just like old times. Maybe I should look up Luscious.
posted by mike osterhout at 12:49 PM
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