Hurtling through the stratosphere - knuckles white and face of pallor. I hate flying - nothing this big should be in the air. With bumps and quivers screech to a halt at the San Fransisco airport. Queasily attain my small luggage and make my way to the BART system to acquire a room downtown. It is 3:30am and the terminal is crowded with weary passengers and pink faced drunk revelers. At the kiosk to purchase a BART ticket - I feel like a damn rube with this contraption and seek help from surly Filipino attendant. The subway is empty save for bloated smelly black hobo - grey beard a mess, clothes shiny over the dirt. On the other end sitting as silent and aloof as a statue an Asian man - dark eyes black as obsidian mirrors.
I check the stations via the on board map, make my way to Powell, Montgomery and my final destination Embarcadero. Up up up the silent escalator to the concrete surface.
Lit a Lucky and clomped down to Mission and 6th - old haunt of Jack Kerouac and Ginsberg. Trash lined streets with old liquor stores and porno shops and cut rate hotels. The throng of deviants that prowled the night were out in full force. Junkies squealed and meth addicts howled at the yella moon as prostitutes of both sexes did their stylized ballet back in forth of the Pussycat Theater. Florescent shadows played along cracked walls "Hey, man - ya lookin'?" White boy hip hop asks through bent teeth.
I find Minna St. and dash down the dank alley buzzed through metal gates at the Pink Flamingo Hotel under the bloodshot eyes of the passive Hindi. Slap forty dollars down and make it to my small foul smelling room - smells of mildew and dried semen and bleach waft with muffled sounds from radios, televisions, moaning whores.
Storing my shit, I head back outside and across 6th to the corner store for sweet cakes and coffee. From a bar next door the cocagraphy of yelps and shouts emit - decide to enter.
Honky tonk blares and I am eyed by aggressive locals like animals sensing danger. I order a Carona and lean up against the bar. Old hag with black moles and floppy tits asks for a drink and I mutter scattah. Scowls and leaves. I down my drink and cut, cause I'm beat, ya dig. I will tour this metropolis manana.
The reason - the goddam reason I had to travel here is the way of my publishing company all of a sudden getting shady and changing their agreement on certain royalties for my novel. Shyster bitches. Will attend meeting with said high muckity mucks lunes - er, I mean Monday and see the outcome if it outcome.
Will definitely check the gay scene here - I hear it is quite something...