Up early, and back over that Golden Gate Bridge, thinking about the infamous suicide jumpers. That documentary we watch some months back continues to haunt me. Such desperation, and so, uh, “public” or something? Yikes. Didn’t like being on that bridge. Too many ghosts.

It’ll forever amaze me how you can go from seemingly nothing to so goddamn much. Hence “coming into San Francisco” from the north. City. Instantly. And tons of it. Seven miles squared.

The rest of our day is a blur. We drove from the sandy beaches of the Ocean Beach to the wharf to the north to the markets of Mission street to the south through Golden Gate Park, on down Haight street to hit Amoeba Records, up Hyde and down Lombard, through Chinatown, the financial district, the Castro and then got the hell out.

I would like to thank Big S and his unwavering transmission. Good work, chap.

Highlight of the day was seeing Dean in the park. You are the best jewel in all of San Francisco.

We headed back over to Berkeley, hit a couple record stores downtown and got back on that 580 up to I-80, and then north, all the way to Redding, where we bedded down in quite possibly the dirtiest hotel room to date in my sad life. Many apologies to Leigh. My radar was off. You are a good sport, girl.

And to the proprietors of the Hilltop Inn of Redding: Go find another line of work. Like cadavers, or something.