Well what the fuck now.
Ever since you killed winter, it's never quiet. Now the sun's always out and all you fancy-ass kids lie scattered all over Dolores Park like the wreck of the hipster fucking Hindenburg. Does anyone work anymore? Is the American economy powered entirely by tweezed eyebrows? Progress is as dynamic as goddamn fruit salad.
What? What did I ever do, you ask? How about I saved the Mission, motherfucker.
Don't believe me? Where the fuck were you on the morning of 18 April, nineteen-aught-six? I know where I was. My ass was perched up top of Dolores Park while the whole goddamned city fell the fuck apart, then blew the fuck up. I was the fireplug that didn't run dry. I was the one the firefighters came a-running to, on horses and shit, and saved the goddamned Mission from burning the fuck down.
My cup? My motherfucking cup runneth over.
So yes, you can sprawl all over the sweet-ass hill and call up apps on your phone all day while you get too high on that old-shoe-smelling bastard's edibles. But you got an app better than water? Hell no.
After the earthquake, you know what they did? They painted my ass gold. Yes sir. And every year, the fire chief wakes his ass up on April 18th and moseys on out at 5:12 in the goddamn morning to slap a new coat of paint on me while a small herd of boosters and cub-ass reporters with nothing better to do stand by. Getting painted gold by the fire chief? That's like getting a handjob from the Homecoming King every year on your birthday, for a fire hydrant.
Listen, there's nothing wrong with all the zippies and twinksters and shazams and bunnymen who live large in the city now. Not like I don't enjoy to see people tangled up in lightness and motherfucking mirth, but this is Elysian fields shit. This is Caligula's brunch, yo.
After the earthquake, there were people living in tents in the park because they had no houses. That was some re-fu-GEE shit. Now anybody puts up something in the park, it's one of those tightropes, like the world needs more specialized balancers. That's some fu-NAM-bu-list shit.
Mission folk used to be hard, man. That's how life was. Now, shit, I don't even know. I see some motherfuckers, I know they wax their balls. Seems to me like every generation gets a little softer as they get further and further away from an appreciation of total catastrophe. And then all these kombucha-ass zippies fucking hit Yelp when the next Big One comes down the line and they wig because they can't make a brunch reservation. Only there's no Yelp anymore. Just a big-ass hole, and people down in it going “Yelp.”
You know arugula is also called rocket? I know that shit now. I don't want to know that shit. We don't need two words for that. That's noise. Everything should be lettuce and everybody's eyes should be on the goddamn horizon.
But that's just me, man. I have seen the shit, right here. I have opened wide and given of myself and I have held the chaos at bay, for just a little motherfucking longer. And the motherfuckers that know, know. And every year they come around, warming up that wrist.
All that's gold don't glitter, bitch! Sometimes it just sits there with a quiet strength, ready to save your motherfucking world from the next motherfucking apocalypse.
Brandon R. Reynolds is the Editor of SF Weekly.