27 Things That Only San Franciscans Know Are Possible
In San Francisco, it is possible to be in a polyamorous relationship by accident.
In San Francisco, it is possible to buy hash brownies from a woman in the park dressed like Dorothy from Wizard of Oz who is 8-months pregnant.
In San Francisco, it is possible to have a serious conversation about Snapchat.
In San Francisco, it is possible to see a man in mittens and a winter jacket on a sunny, 60-degree day.
In San Francisco, it is possible to buy a 9-dollar juice.
In San Francisco, it is possible to be a drag queen and also ‘The Man.’
In San Francisco, it is possible to complain about gentrification while making a six-figure salary and using the phrase ‘that’s where we vacation’ not ironically.
In San Francisco, it is possible to be fined for “failure to compost.”
In San Francisco, it is possible to wear pajamas to work.
In San Francisco, it is possible to wear pajamas to ‘da club.’
In San Francisco, it is possible to be what is I think technically a coke addict but also ‘a healthy girl’ because, gluten free and lots of green juice.
In San Francisco, it is possible to fall asleep in your boss’ ‘sleep pod’ after a pool party that happened inside of his house.
In San Francisco, it is possible to have brunch for 12 hours.
In San Francisco, it is possible to be a ‘professional activist’ but really a marketing assistant at Facebook.
In San Francisco, it is possible to be politely propositioned for sex by a complete stranger while tying your shoes.
In San Francisco, it is possible to buy cookies from Girl Scouts with ribbons in their hair across the street from three completely naked men having coffee on their stoop.
In San Francisco, it is possible to be a professional ‘mover’ but for people not for furniture.
In San Francisco, it is possible to be ‘woof’d’ at by ‘bears’ while walking to the store for bread. (Just Google it.)
In San Francisco, it is possible to ski and to surf and to ask a locally-famous little person sex worker for directions while lost in the Tenderloin all in the same day.
In San Francisco, it is possible to drive a Smart car and to look at yourself in the mirror at night.
In San Francisco, it is possible to be hit by a biker while driving to work and to still be wrong and possibly jailed because ‘fossil fuels.’
In San Francisco, it is possible to dress like a character in The Matrix but to act like a character in Mean Girls.
In San Francisco, it is possible to be a world-famous fetish block party (so: leather, public sex acts, darker things I do not feel comfortable writing) and “a little too corporate, this year.”
In San Francisco, it is possible to spend an hour on a 3-mile MUNI commute and to still be proud of your public transportation.
In San Francisco, it is possible to debate the merits of Capitalism with a man in a t-shirt that reads “Che” who is drinking a 6-dollar latte.
In San Francisco, it is possible to stand on your roof at night beneath the stars and watch a low fog flood the hills and swallow the Sutro Tower; to turn and see the city lit like soft fire behind you, an ocean of light that shimmers, and bridges reaching out to distant lands like neon lifelines out of Tron; to breathe it in, the air of the trees that are gods, the great redwoods, and to commune with the ghosts of Joplin and Tupac and Jerry Garcia, of Jackson, of London, of Frost; to be home in the city that was built by the Gold Rush, built by the Catholic working class, built by the psychedelic orphans of the 1960s, built by the internet; to raise your hands up to the sky like ‘oh, oh, oh, I am alive, Lord, and life is good!’
In San Francisco, it is possible to be hit in the face with a yoga mat while trying to avoid a gutter punk riding the wrong way down the sidewalk on a unicycle.
In San Francisco, it is all possible.