As an East Coaster, I had preconceived notions of San Francisco. It stems from my conservative parents’ opinion that everyone on the West Coast is a homosexual, liberal transvestite. I fully expected a modern Sodom and Gomorra with Nancy Pelosi dressed in leather as she exerted her communist rule over a teeming morass of hippies. So far, my preconceived notions proved to be relatively accurate.

To date, I have observed a series of characters and had some singular experiences. Here are the highlights from my first week:

I saw a man walking his cat. The only thing peculiar about that was how well the feline obeyed its leash. It kept pace with its master like a Labrador. The man, however, had a mullet that looked like a coon-skin cap of wiry black hair. He pushed a baby carriage containing no baby. The only purpose of the perambulator was to transport his boom box which blared 80′s glam metal. As master and pet rolled down the street, the cat, with a dour puss, glanced over in time with the sound track’s power chords and wondered why the hell his walk was being ruined by such awful music.

Apartment hunting, I discovered a transexual landlady. Christin was most definitely post op. Being a little older, her constructed breasts also had a bit of a sag. Effervescent in her duties as a building manager, she delighted in showing me the tiny studio and went on in exquisite detail about the work she was doing – how she buffed the floors, spackled the walls and marbled all of the countertops. She mourned the state of a broken window and assured me she would have it replaced the moment she finished re-squaring the casing. I would have taken this delightful study in gender-fication purely for her handiwork, if only it had not been a minuscule box on the border of the Tenderloin.

At Golden Gate Park, I observed a drum circle. Since everyone here smokes weed, it only makes sense that a sunny winter Saturday would feature a Burning-man grade hacky sack-fest with the requisite tribe of African drummers. Twenty or so brothers played any manner of percussion in a tight semi-circle. There were white folks as well. In a twist of social norms, they were relegated to the outside of the circle where they attempted to provide meager accents to the frenetic back beats. They failed utterly but were far too high to really notice. The white gentleman having the most fun was the burnt out Bukowski-type who danced in the center by swaying and stomping his feet completely out of time.

Coming home from a night on the town, I stood out in my suit. Dressing up in San Francisco involves an ironed flannel and I, too rumpled for church, stood out all the more strolling home mid Sunday morning. As I made my way, I observed two gay men on a vespa loudly debating not wanting to be in relationships. The effete Vietnamese, the ardent proponent of non-monogamy who rode on the back, caught me listening in, pointed and proclaimed, “Unless, I was in a relationship with you, sexy.” Lest I be too pleased with my self, the security guard at the pharmacy looked at my attire, asked if I was a missionary and promised to eject me from the store if he caught me prostelyzing. When I told him I was mid walk of shame, he told me how it had been many a year since he had done such a thing. Quoting Bobby Bare, he said, “I never went to bed with an ugly woman, but I sure woke up with a few.” When I assured him my lady was beautiful before and after, he slapped me on the shoulder and congratulated me.

Outside the store, one of the myriad wheel-chaired vagrants sat basking in the sun. Sardonic about his stereotype, he asked me if “Can I, please, not have a cigarette. I don’t smoke.” When I pantomimed refusing him a cigarette, he clapped his hands, smiled and rolled his chair down the street. Then, I discovered a woman with a hand-written sign that said “Too ugly for prostitution” which prompted the first dollar I had donated since arriving in this beautiful town.

My mother was right. Everyone here is bloody insane. She bade me to not “become one of those weirdos.” Since I was one of them before I arrived, I must continue to disobey her and feel like I have arrived at home. Fuck, I love this place.