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Today (Sunday 22 Oct) was a very strange day. I decided to get�
the hell out of the Pit after having worked all weekend cleaning�
up after the quake, but I had nowhere to go really, so I just�
took my skateboard and decided to go to the Castro or somewhere�
for coffee or something. At 9pm Sunday there's not much to do�
unless you wanna go hang out in a dark disco bar, which I hate.�
It was really warm out, which was unusual, especially after it�
was predicted that it was gonna rain and be miserable.

So I took MUNI to Castro, checked out the graffiti paint job 
ACT-UP did in the street (a story in itself: during an ACT-UP�
protest two Fridays ago, consisting mainly of the usual sitting�
in the intersection at Market and Castro, then painting dozens of�
human-body outlines in the street, the police rioted and did a�
"sweep" of the Castro. "Police riot" is not an exaggeration --�
during a  completely non-violent protest the cops went wild,�
beating people, and some yelling "faggots!" and "dykes!" -- the�
Mayor was furious and wrote a letter of apology to local papers.)

ANYWAYS -- Of course the Castro is otherwise boring and stupid�
unless you are a clone or something, so I decided to skate�
towards through South of Market, to check out the roller coaster�
sidewalks and collapsed buildings and other fun stuff caused by�
the quake.

I came across the on-ramp to the Bay Bridge -- and decided to�
take a tour of that otherwise impossible to explore structure.�
What a chance! But shit -- I don't even get to the freeway before�
some guy working on the bridge sees me, and tells me I can't go�
up there. "No problem" I said, and just skated back down the�
ramp. Oh well.

I headed back towards Townsend, to look for the building that�
rained bricks upon cars driving by, killing six people. As I'm�
skating down pitch-dark Townsend, a car going the other way slows�
down, and after a while turns around. This makes me nervous --�
there's too many weirdos out lately, fag-bashers, red-necks,�
whatever (About an hour back, a van full of weirdos followed me�
down Bryant for a block until I ducked down a one-way side�
street). So I casually skate around the corner, then quickly hide�
behind the edge of the building to watch. Here it comes ... oops!�
It's cops in an unmarked car! They see me, so I stand up, and �
wave. At the next corner I skate past them, no problem,�
apparently they were just checking things out, but you can't be�
too careful.

So I head down Bryant. Aha! The I-280 Sixth Street off-ramp! It's�
apparently closed due to earthquake damage, so this is another�
once in a lifetime chance to explore a major feature of San�
Francisco that's otherwise completely inaccessible. And it's�
dark, and no one is working on it ... so I quickly run up the�
ramp out of sight. 

You have to see this beautiful concrete thing to believe it. It's�
four or five stories high, a hundred or so feet wide, five or six�
huge interconnecting ribbons of aerial concrete, a huge wide road�
that sweeps off in all directions out to the horizon. I love�
driving, I take thousand mile or longer trips a few times a year,�
I love highways in general, and this one specifically, as it's an �
incredibly dramatic drive into San Francisco from the south.�
There's something about all high speed freeways and huge open�
spaces like this that makes me horny.

So I'm just about at the top of the ramp, I can see downtown,�
most of South of Market, Potrero Hill, and the edge of the�
Mission. For some reason this makes me even more horny -- so I�
decide I will go to the highest and widest point I can find,�
and masturbate in the high-speed lane. (Might as well -- there's�
no one to have sex with here anyways.)

But as I cross the overpass over Townsend, a spotlight hits me�
from below -- and someone in the car it's attached to yells at�
me. I move into the middle of the road, away from the edge where�
I can be seen. I crawl back, and the car quickly drives off. Oh�
oh. 

I skate up to the intersection where the Sixth St. ramp I'm on�
meets the roadway to the Fourth Street ramp, look back, and see�
an unpleasant flashing red and blue before it crests the hill!�
Oops! Right at the intersection is a crash barrier -- a wedge�
made of big yellow barrels filled with sand to keep cars from�
hitting the concrete. There's a space between the rows of�
barrels, so I climb in there and duck way down. It's the cops I�
had ducked from earlier! Not a pleasant coincidence. Getting�
busted here would be truly unpleasant -- I had no desire to get�
hauled off to jail for something as stupid as this.

So I get a bit smarter. I decided I better stay hidden for a�
while. Smart move - - a few minutes later another car comes up�
from the south. I scrunch way down as the cops zoom by the way I�
came. They turn around, back to the fork, then down the other�
ramp. I watch them go all the way down, turn around again. They�
make another pass a few minutes later.

OK, so I'm in the middle of this vast concrete desert, and out in�
the open I could be spotted literally a mile a way under the big�
sodium lamps, with nowhere to hide. I decided to hang out for a�
while -- I had no idea how certain they were of who/what they had�
seen, nor how important to them it was that they find me. I�
figured hanging out in the barricade for an hour would be better�
than going to the cop's house.

All this time, the weather is getting stranger and stranger, not�
to mention a bit cold. Huge clouds, and incredibly strong winds�
are blowing sand, tin cans and tire shreds all over the place. 

Of course nothing happened, so an hour and ten minutes later, I�
leave my hiding spot and head towards the 18th Street/Mariposa�
exit. The concrete stretches to the horizon in both directions,�
with other aerial roadways weaving in and out in all directions.�
Fucking great! So I pulled my pants down and got my cock hard, �
which took a while because though the great expanse of concrete�
was exciting, I was scared shitless of being caught. Eventually�
it worked, and I squirt cum onto the little reflector bumps in�
the high-speed lane of 280 North. Fuck yeah!

OK, enough is enough. Now I gotta get out of here, and walk and�
skate down the very roads those cops are probably patrolling. And�
since this is deep South of Market, Sunday night, and all the�
massive industry and warehouses are closed, it would be�
reasonable to assume that any tall skinny person with a funny hat�
and skateboard was probably the asshole who they saw earlier.But�
luckily (or not, I took a roundabout route) I made it back�
without incident.

By the time I get home, the weather is totally nuts. It reminds�
me of pre- hurricane weather you get on the East Coast. (Where�
people say "I would never live where there's earthquakes!" but�
when asked about hurricanes, they say "Oh, that's different.")�
Huge, noisy gusts are blowing trash down the street: giant �
cardboard boxes, a little kids wading pool?, long strips of�
plastic, and these huge cardboard tubes our slobby neighbors left�
stacked on the sidewalk, and household trash from the�
unhousebroken yuppie artfags that lives up stairs (they think�
just putting it out on the sidewalks makes it disappear --�
tonight they were right) ... it really feels like something�
strange and scary is going to happen.

No, there is no punch line to this story. It was just a very�
strange night. 


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