THELONIOUS TAKES ON SAN FRANCISCO

The fucking cable cars. Nevah stay anywhere near a cable-car line. All day and night. Those fucking tourists, hip-sack, shopping bags, fleece SF sweatshirt, gee, honey—who would’ve thought it gets so cold in California durin the summer. Everyone hangin off cable cars all smilin and wavin. They wave at the locals. What the fuck you waving at? I’m mid-city chillin ovah here. I could have a mother-fuckin gun under this shirt. Please don’t wave at me. I used to have fun at Melody’s apartment when she lived in Nob Hill on Mason. I would hang out on the terrace and throw eggs at the cable cars. Only durin 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. But I’m not anti-Frisco, just don’t wave at me if I’m mid-city chillin. Melody’s from Bezerkley. She’s kind of punk-y 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. Frisco needs a little wrecking crew steez if you know what I mean. I used to bomb the city. You know them posters with Andre the Giant—the OBEY shiite—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 tawkin 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.

If you like Thelonious, check out his take on Chicago, or go back to New York