I’m starting to come to the conclusion that San Francisco, though amazingly spectacular in many rights is a harmonious blend of the world’s biggest cut-throats, rejects and potentially insane. They all exist in perfect comity to co-exist no matter what type of language, race, sexual preference or whether you are just a glue sniffing, three-legged-cross-dressing, swashbuckling, ballerina dancing, alien believing, opium smoking, art gallery visiting, clam chowder eating, going green recycling, save the pigmy marmoset picketing, anti-war rioting, sideways snorkeling, god faring… human being.
It not only is downright crazy, it’s truly astounding. In towns all over the country many of these previously determined itinerant outcasts have been ostracized, beat up, laughed at or downright banned. In San Francisco, not only are they completely accepted – these inscrutable lunatics are freakin’ celebrities! It appears that the more peculiar you are, the more accepted and popular you are in this town!
My theory came to a complete culmination this past weekend at the Haight Street fair. Haight street is infamous all over the world for being a hippiesh, anything goes type of area and my white, Marin-raised, frat boy roots were wandering into dangerous uncharted water like a customer wandering into a 7-11 without an interpreter.
It was either the six-foot-nine Dennis Rodman look alike dressed in high heels and a tight purple skirt dancing to Death Techno or the gentlemen pictured below dawning a tidied shirt, Jesus sandals and a pair of jean shorts too tight to fit even a nine-year old anorexic sc
hoolgirl that made me come to my ignorant conclusions. (This Rodman wannabe busted my hypothetical cherry for a large man dressed in drag, but then again this was my first Death Techno concert as well so who’s counting?)
These nonsensical creatures of lunacy at first made me want to vomit on my funnel cake, but after careful deliberation and several minutes of jaw-gaping astonishment on my part I began to search the crowd, my eyes darting too and fro in a desperate attempt to find more inscrutable misfits capable of satisfying my insatiable urges for eccentricity. It actually was kind of refreshing to be in a scene where people just don’t give a f#@* (expletive). They are who they are and granted I would prefer not seeing two guys dressed up as snoopy characters making out, but if Brandon Walsh never made manager at the Peach Pit on Beverly Hills 90210 then why should I get what I want? The way I figure, as far as these normal citizens are concerned, if I don’t like it…I can take a hike. Because then again – they are celebrities in this town and the normalcy that is formally known as myself is merely an inscrutable misfit just trying to find an identity…
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