Holding back in the west coast weather
broken heart and a brand new sweater
telling lies—well, it never felt better than that
retread tires and a shiny new quarter
drive all night to the California border
my lucky day—well, it never felt shorter than that

Falling down in the west coast weather
I saw your face when you read that letter
I saw your face and you should have known better than that
=trackstar

This type of year always makes me nostalgic for San Francisco. I used to spend my “mud seasons” there. I’ve nurtured long distance romance there. I even signed a lease on an apartment there, into which I never moved.

The late 80’s and early 90’s in San Francisco were magical. Before the .com frenzy changed the feel of that city, it was a laid-back, low-down, dirty and beautiful place to shake your butt and scrounge around for clues to your own future.

I know that it’s still a great city and hasn’t changed that much. But part of me feels like I could never go back and feel the same way about it again. It’s like the City is some good friend who admitted to eating baby seals or something. You might have the same experience overall when you’re hanging out and your friend isn’t snacking on furry white pups, but you’d always be thinking, “geez, that’s ill.”

But I still miss that city in a lot of ways, and the special worlds in which I existed there, however briefly, are totally different now, and I wouldn’t have the slightest clue as to where to turn to find new spheres of domination. When I was in San Francisco, usually during extended visits from Colorado, I got to play out a life I didn’t really lead. I never had to work there, because I was always flush with ski resort money.

It wasn’t even my world to miss, but I will always miss Nickie’s BBQ and those old school thunderfunk nights. I’ll ever long for Western Addition and the Lower Haight and being a semi-scruffy Western kid kicking up dust and digging in the crates. I still have dreams, sometimes nightmares, about climbing the external ladder to the roof of Patty’s apartment building in Pacific Heights, thirteen floors up. Rockin’ my best baggy jeans, Airwalks and some ultra-cool baseball cap, probably with a turntable on it, I’d criss-cross that city for hours upon hours, sometimes getting tailed by the same homeless guy who looked like Santa. I’d stop into any place that looked interesting. I’d wait for Nathan M. to get off of work down in SoMa and then we’d kick it in Frankie’s Bohemian Cafe and, finally, cab it to unbelievable acid jazz parties in derelict old mansions. We’d drink Crazy Horse malt liquor wrapped in brown paper bags as we walked from place to place and joke about throwing the empty bottles at people in the Castro in what could possible be the most un-politically correct and downright evil thing we could think of at the time.

I still remember the Russian Mafia gambling spots, the Automatons, the perfect sun of the Mission in October, Gavin’s rooftop party spot, Hane’s hospitality and superior musical taste. The list goes on and on. Everything I saw, spoke about, listened to and tasted still lingers in my memory more vividly than just about anything else I’ve ever done.

Last time I visited, it was all gone. In a way, I was thankful.