I gotta say, San Trancisco has quite a bit of interestingness going for it. Other than exploring my adopted culture in its massive Chinatown, I ate the legendary “In and Out Burger” and visited the “hippy town” (since when did a Ben and Jerry’s and a headshop justify tourist-spot status?). Picked up a copy of “The Alphabet of Manliness” by Maddox. I whacked it in Tironius’s bathroom (he’ll read this after I’m safely aboard my flight). I drank tons of coffee and took naps to fight jet lag.

I talked with strangers on the Muni, the public transit system here. One guy in a suit lugging multiple duffel bags told me “My greatest joy will be killing my enemy” before asking me “Son, have you ever stepped on a land mine? It’s hell!” Another, perhaps seven-foot-tall and pear-shaped, shouted at me, “I’d like your professional opinion on that!” Of course what “that” was wasn’t quite clear. I’d been a good distance away and no dialogue lead up to this outburst. Obviously he didn’t know my only profession is slacking.

A bunch of Asian kids encircled a statue dedicated to some local war heroes and shouted a fraternity pledge. Most of them were female, except for a girly guy who looked like the chief from “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” He told me what they were doing, then turned and ran away, belting out a “Bye!” over his shoulder like a Cinderella at midnight.

Some guy beckoned me from the urinal of a restaurant. In my small talk, I made the mistake of implying I’d gone to college. He wanted me to set up shop selling mortgages under him. I guess he saw some potential in me for pushing poor people further into debt. I don’t mean to pass judgment. Oops, I already did.

Lastly, I’ve gotta say. The Asian chicks in this city love their massive sunglasses. It’s like watching Elton John sneer and brush past in a high heel strut everytime I ignore their chunky arms and thighs and gawk down their massive puddles of cleavage. You’d think they’d thank me for that instant of attention they seem so desperate for.

Trollie trouble in town of Franny

Back when my Asian pussy was still in Pussia—er, I mean Japan [aka Nippon] — there was one night not unlike any other before or after, when I was riding the streetcar back from the city to home. We around these parts call it the K-line.

I got on and sat my beautiful glutes in a row of two unused seats facing forward, taking the window seat. It’s a good thing, too, because a perfectly poundable Asian pussy rested its lips on the seat next to me.

We exit West Portal, where the subway tunnel comes out and onto the ground, and the car will begin its journey on the roads, sharing its space with normal automibiles. We begin our terranean trek down through West Portal Avenue, past the theater, past the pizza place, and past the bum. God bless Ol’ Shanky. The car takes us to a normal straight-away stretch of track that is located in between a divided road, so we are in fact separated at this moment from automobiles. The car speeds up like it always does and, then sudddenly:

WHIIIRRR, CRANKITY-THUNNNG! Lights go out.

The cars breaks are slammed — “Whiirrrr,” it jolts to a paralel track — “Crankity crank!” while still slowing down, and “Thung!” hits a parked streetcar on the paralel track. It would seem that someone had forgotten to _switch back _the track, so the car—instead of continuing on its normal straight course—was rerouted to the paralel track, as if a driver turned down the wrong way of a one way road. For some reason, on this night, thankfully, there was simply a powered-down, parked streetcar resting there, and not a moving streetcar for us to slam into.

“Shit!” I hear from inside the engineer’s cockpit. The driver was a fat, black woman, and I could see she was startled, and was regaining her composure. Keep in mind, the lights are out, it is night-time, so the only light is that of the yellow street lamps from outside.

“You OK?” I ask the hottie next to me. My lips translated what my brain was really saying: “Do you want me to rip your jeans off and finger you?”

“Yes,” she says. She isn’t a “whitewashed” Asian as these Californians like to say. She was an Asian through ‘n’ through. She calls on her cell phone, probably to her borefriend, er, boyfriend.

I bust out my cam. I snap a few pictures of the people in the train. Typical Californian slice of life. Shrill white bitch demanding to know what happened from the driver; too-cool-for-school kid who doesn’t need to follow orders from the driver about stepping away from the door (because she needs to get to it); some old white guy, bald.

The scene: to the right road and the track we are supposed to be on.

The she-doesn’t-know-where-my-tongue-is-on-her-body-right-now-in-my-mind girl.

Help arrives, and my little Chinese bird gets into a nice car and fly-flies away. I get on the bus the Muni people sent over to continue the trip. I jerk to her face later.

The end.

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In order to grow my army of half-n-half's while in Japan, I plan to impregnate as many nubile schoolgirls as possible, leaving them to raise slightly slanted, yet slightly round-eyed offspring.

But at home in the states, I cannot be burdened by the thought of children. Yet, I can't be bothered with slow, awkward packaging of condoms, especially when that black mohawk mesh is stairing at me with that one eye, waiting for me.

Enter Pronto condoms. (For real.)

A bitter wind blew some beautiful garbage down the sidewalk to its natural resting place--anywhere but the trashcan. I wondered to myself "Why doesn't the city just make 'trash traps'?"

Hisssss! Skreeejerk! The shitty bus pulled up and opened its mechanical eppiglotus and devoured me. I took my place amongst the mobile human bacterial culture. Public Transportation Roll Call!

Mumbling bum? Here...mumbum..sattellites...
Regular Bum? Jesus Saves! here.
Always looks stressed out girl? Present.
Woman with eight Children? Here (here, here, here, ...)
Dying of Infectious Tuberculosis Man? He-cough, cough-re Hipster-listens-to-only-obscure-local-bands-guy? Here.

Ok, looks like everyone is on-board. So I settle into a nice position and happen to tune into the conversation taking place between the bus driver, and her friend who seems to be an off duty bus driver sitting across the aisle from her.

Driver: Naw, baby, you don't want no 67 route- that shit is busy all night!
Friend: Shit, I don't know shit about shit thayan (then)
Driver: "Ashland, Ashland- next stop is Ashland.."
Friend: Whatever happened to that new guy...Charles?
Driver: Charles? You didn't hear about that shit? That nig*er got his ass fucked up.
Friend: No shit? (laughing the way you laugh when someone gets locked out of his car.)
Driver: Yeah, he got him a '54th street garage welcome,' shit..
Friend: Those boys (the city hired mechanics who make $40,000/yr) at 54th are baaadd.
Driver: Yeah, they done jumped him and put his ass in the hospital - ha ha,
Friend: "welcome to 54th street sweetheart!" (reminiscent of the way you would joke about someone getting a disappointing tax refund.)
Driver: Ha ha, shiiiiiii-yit that's what I said. Well, you can't be stupid 'round there- you gotta show some respect or that's what you get..
Friend: So how's yo baby?

Fucked. up. Was I the only person who was still alarmed by this? Someone was beaten by a group of city-paid workers- and that is simply "welcome to 54th street garage baby?" Different worlds. Totally different worlds. I used to think our society was fairly integrated- but let's get real. In my world if someone taps my bumper, I get out and exchange insurance information with him. In that world, getting beaten within an inch of your life is akin to getting a parking ticket. Another everyday thing. Two worlds exist in this city (and most cities in America): Disney world is my world, Alcatraz is the other. For me it was the ultimate sign of society gone wrong. What is wrong with us man?

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