So I've got this story due Monday, a piece I've yet to start concerning the recent San Francisco Board of Supervisors meeting. Cue Saturday: the smooth caress of afternoon sunshine starts me on a wonderfully groggy quest for soapy absolution; after a "quick shower" that takes the better part of an hour, I putter about the cozy nook Park Merced lovingly deigns to call our two-bedroom apartment.

By two or so I figure there might be something to this whole academia trip, and suit up to catch the 2:08 M up to the Civic Center. I figure I'll hoof it up to Japan Center via Fillmore, maybe see if I can't corral a few outspoken locals to pad out my article with a touch of colorful commentary. Check out the Festival at the Center, snap a few pictures and catch the 38 back to Presidio; shit, with luck I'll make it back just in time for lunch. My British roommate and I haven't accomplished much in the way of interpersonal communication; our few opportunities for male bonding have taken place huddled over the toaster oven, in a mad quest for glory and the perfect ham sandwich.

I hit the rail station only to find a huge line at the ticket machine, something I've never seen even at peak hours. What's more, easily three quarters of these fretful fidgeters are tapping toes clad in vintage 70's footwear; at this point, I think images are a beast far more suited to carrying a narrative of this magnitude.


The train station looked like casting call for a low-budget 70's skin flick. Not pictured: copious quantities of glitter.


Standing room only, baby. I inadvertently felt up at least three people over the course of the trip. Not pictured: angry asian man whose butt I rubbed.


Welcome to LoveFest 2008! Not pictured: the three male nudists I met. You think I'm joking; one was in line to buy a Polish sausage.


Ray Charles didn't die; Elvis ate him. Not pictured: two gold teeth.


I've had it with these motherfuckin' hippies on this motherfuckin' plane! Not pictured: my cultural relevance.


This motherfucker was up on stage in full B-for-Balanced Breakfast ensemble, waving a flag like he was 7th Company taking back Hill 355. Not pictured: any attractive women.


I guess there was supposed to be a parade? Or floats? Maybe they just had a thing for pink effelumps on wheels. Not pictured: woozels.


Apparently, a pimped-out Santa spends the first weekend in October picking up trash and preaching about the dangers of public waste. Not pictured: My dignity.

I never made it past Civic Center; LoveFest stole my weekend. The music was horrible, the stench was worse and it was impossible to walk more than five feet without elbowing a midget in the face; I'm totally going back next year.