THELONIOUS TAKES ON SAN FRANCISCO
Cable cars. Never stay anywhere near a cable-car line. All day and night. Fucking tourists, hip-sacks, shopping bags, fleece SF sweatshirts, gee, honey—who would’ve thought it gets so cold in California during the summer. Everyone hanging off the cable cars all smiling and waving. They wave at the locals. What are you waving at? I’m mid-city chilling over here. Please don’t wave at me. I used to have fun at Melody’s apartment when she lived in Nob Hill on Mason. I’d hang out on the terrace and throw eggs at the cable cars. But only during the foggy days. The fog was my cape. When crappy let them think Frisco’s filled with a bunch of punk assholes. When sunny give em their sun and smiles and bells and hip-sacks. I know I’m an asshole. I know I can be a punk. I burn bridges sometimes. I do. And that’s okay. But I’m not anti-Frisco, just don’t wave at me if I’m mid-city chillin. Melody’s from Bezerkley. That’s better. She’s kind of punk-y too when it comes down to it. My biggest qualm with Frisco is its too soft. And what’s with all the weirdoes? Like the spun out hippie selling handfuls of wilted flowers. And the Bushman who jumps out from behind the bushes down by the wharf. Frisco needs a little wrecking crew steez, if you know what I mean. There are some cool skate spots out there. And I used to bomb the city with graffiti. You know them posters with Andre the Giant—the OBEY brainwash campaign—one drunk night in Potrero Hill Melody Rain and me found one and I tagged right over it. I wrote OBEY HURRICANE CLOUT. You know what I’m talking bout, right? The Fairey—my old man’s invested in his art—OBEY THIS. Fuck it, man. I used to bust a lot of graffiti in Frisco. Especially on the park benches. Don’t get me wrong. Frisco’s n-i-i-i-ce. I’m not fronting on the place. It’s just too mellow that’s all.