Dispatches from Sodom & Gommorah

As you may or may not know, in August I graduated from Clemson with a degree in English (very useful). Inspired by the credo of Manifest Destiny, Go West, Young Man!, the plights of countless other dreamers, artists, and romantics, and a desire to escape the shame of moving back in, jobless, with my parents, I decided to journey from my rural Upstate South Carolina home to the big city—worldly, cosmopolitan San Francisco. Needless to say it’s been a bit of a change. Here’s what happened last Saturday, as an example.

Would you believe me if I told you:
•That I hung out with a random guy I met the night before at the Of Montreal show and watched a open-fire Christmas tree burning on the beach—one that featured a streaker and fire dancers?
• That I then tagged along with the guy (not the streaker) and a girl friend of his to a punk show in the Mission district where there were scores of people moshing topless?
•That there I met the girl who had been the cause of the rampant toplessness (leading by example and peer pressure to join her)?
•That I, lady-killing I, after being stripped from the waist up by her, was able to convince her to go along with me to another locale?
•That when I offered to buy her the shot of her choice, she requested that I just give that money to her so she could buy a cheeseburger?
•That even though she claimed she was engaged and lived D.C., we briefly smooched, and when we did I noticed her breath stank? • •That as we walked aimlessly arm-in-arm down the street, we stumbled into a random house party because they were playing Prince on the stereo system?
•That she then proceeded to dance lewdly (and toplessly, again) with the birthday girl as multiple cameras flashed and then left to go do cocaine in a backroom somewhere?
•That sometime past midnight I submitted to group peer pressure and received a bare-bottomed flogging, and still felt like I was being a prude?
•That I then used a randomly found feather boa as a dancing prop?
•That around 5 A.M. I got tired of trying to woo her and decided to finally go home?
•That before I did she actually told me her real name (and gave me her MySpace)?

No? You don’t believe me?
Well, I wouldn’t believe me either. That’s why I got the polaroids to prove it.
Only in San Francisco.
This is one eff-ing loose city. But in a good way.

Read more from James at his blog, Yellow Redneck Blues (www.yehjames.blogspot.com). Updated more often than he’d like to admit.