Friday Night In San Francisco.

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An album of unbelievable virtuosity, and a city of impossible beauty-and the politics that followed.

I got the tape, a copy of an original, when I was sixteen or so. I wanted to throw away my guitar.after hearing it. . . .Well, no-I'd never do that. I did, however, realize that my Santa Cruz (model D131R) would probably never be played at such a level. I've married that guitar, you see, in my own way.and I'll not part with it. I may not play it nearly enough-but I will not part with it.

I have the cd now, of course-and it's still so very intense that I can hardly stand it. How could anyone spend so very much time playing that they could play such things? How could three individuals who had spent so very much time playing ever synchronize together? When and where did they get the time?

Maybe they are mutants. Maybe they are savants? I dunno.

Here's some free advice: If you teach guitar-don't let your students hear this thing unless you know that they have exceptional talent the likes of which you've never seen before.

I vaguely remember putting a close friend into a trance with this music. What I've never been able to communicate properly to other humans is that I try to communicate through music. I do this-and nobody ever seems to pick up on it. The only people who HAVE realized that I was doing anything like trying to communicate with them through music were those drug users who Christians often refer to as "human trash."

My brother borrowed this disk from me once-and it took years to get it back. It's powerful for those who've got ears to hear. I'll leave that at THAT.

I guess I started this thing off with memories of that album because it was probably the first thing in my life that marked that city-it's either the album, or simply mentioning my following of Major League Baseball, and the city's team, the Giants.

Now, I'm a Texan -I'll always BE a Texan. There's just no getting around that-but I've been to California on a few occasions, and I'd love to burn this old candle at both ends in California-until there is no combustion left. I've been to San Francisco. I spent a whole weekend in San Fran. That was just about enough for me-I'm sold on the place.

Beautiful cities I don't know where you live, probably-but maybe I do. Doesn't matter. I've seen THREE beautiful cities in my travels, and they are San Antonio, Texas; San Diego, California; and San Francisco, California.

Truth is-I've spent about the same amount of my adult life in San Fran as I have in San Antonio. I'll take San Francisco over San Antonio each and every time. The city just has SO much to offer.

Here's a short one for you: I got kicked out of Swifts's driving school for a commercial drivers license in less than a day while attending the thing in San Antonio. I'd just quit my job, moved out of where I was living, etc to go to that school, and I got kicked out in less than a day for something the recruiter should have alerted me that could have been a problem. So I rented a sports car, got a motel room, and asked a beautiful young Mexican American Woman out for a date. . . .which went well, but she was married and getting a divorce. I had a wonderful time-but didn't get none of what makes a young man live.

I ended up with an escort instead. I kept up with her for a while on e-mails-but she wasn't one of the escorts that I wanted to take home with me. I HAVE had a few that I wanted a whole lot more to do with.

. . . .but not in San Francisco. In San Francisco I rode the overpriced city transit from Golden Gate Bridge back to "Japan town," where I was staying in a hotel/motel(what's the difference?) On the bus back a completely beautiful woman sat next to me. I couldn't stop looking at her-so I had to start talking to her, right? Well, I told you that she was a beautiful woman-but she looked like a girl to me.

"So, are you on Spring Break?"

"Yes!" she said, "We're here on Spring break!"

She was obviously with a group-which explains the large group of similar aged individuals nearby.

"Your high school sent a group to San Francisco?"

"Rice University?! You know-in Texas. . . . ."

The Beach Boys might have sang about how they wished that they were all California girls-but I enjoy thinking about girls that attend Rice University, South of Houston.

HOLY SHIT! You'd just not know how pleased I was to find that I COULD safely enjoy lustful thoughts about such a person without the ever invasive dream police. I dislike what often passes as Christians for what they've done to my mind. I truly hate Christians.

One of the most brilliant essays that I've read in a long time stated that the only way to be a Christian is to not be one. It made perfect sense to me. Thank you, Mr. Rabid P.

Later, with my two pals we'd went downtown-and were just walking everywhere without direction for a bit.

"What you fellas looking for? Ladies? Strip Clubs? I can get you Whatever YOU WANT!"

This wasn't a cop. Cops are never fifty years old, shaped like a string bean waiting for the wind to blow away. . . .

I typically say something and keep walking-or avoid eye contact when in such a situation.

"No thanks, Sir," Rey, our host spoke to him.

A sly laugh, meant to be insulting-"Oh, you boys must be going to the Castro. . . . ."

We kept walking, "What did he say?" Johnny asked.

"I thought he said something about Castro," I replied.

Not too much further Johnny said, "Hey guys, I think we ought to turn it around-I think those are male prostitutes."

Now, I'd noticed some shirtless men on the street corner-and I'd heard two older black men having a conversation that was about smoking crack-my two companions, not being initiates, had no clue about. . . .

Johnny and I are basically Liberals. I do not call myself by such a label often-but it often applies.

Major Rivera, our host, had earlier spoken to another military friend who happened to be in town, and we decided to see him at a very swank hotel. I kept thinking that Kid Rock, or Axle Rose would buy me a drink in this place. I saw neither-but I kept looking, certain that they were there.

After formally meeting the "super stud military friend" we re-located to a more quiet area than the downstairs bar of this busy, super swank hotel in downtown San Francisco.

"Do you see these people? How well dressed they are? How much money they have?," Rey asked.

"Yeah. . . . . ."

"All of these people are probably highly intelligent, and work very hard."

I couldn't possibly, ever in my life disagree more.