San Frangroovy

Originally published at Route 96. You can comment here or there.

San Franciskey? How did you came? Did you drove or did you flew?

In San Francisco we stayed with Isa, one of my corky Harvard chums, and her equally cool friend Anisa, also visiting from the East. They didn’t ask us, “did you drove or did you flew?” [2006 Edit: An old Eugene Levy catchphrase from SCTV, long before he was America’s favorite dorky honky. Was this a reference to anything, does anyone know? I’ve been wondering about that for about twenty years.] but they were Grade A queens o’ hospitality nonetheless, and we had a great time. Isa was doing research this summer for a big White House egghead task force designed to get more Americans bowling again for some reason. Her boyfriend Noah was down in Argentina bringing Nazis to justice. (To quote Ray Stevens, and why the hell not: “That kind of superficiality can wear pretty thin.”)

I’d been told that Frisco (Isa: “We don’t call it that.”) is one of those cities that can be a lot of fun or very depressing, depending on which side of the tracks you’re on and ho much money you have in your pocket. We didn’t have much money, but Isa and Anisa (I know, it’s too cute isn’t it? Just wait until we meet up with Lisa and order a pizza.) must have steered us well clear of those prodigal tracks, because we thought San Francisco was boss to the Nth degree. We ended up spending a couple of days there, eschewing our usual hit-and-run guerrilla tourism to spend at least a little time in a few of SF’s funkier neighborhoods.

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