... down a hole.

Unconsciously, San Francisco is as far north as any Southern Californian truly cares to travel, unless they're skiing.  After all, what's above it? 

Most have never even taken time to contemplate this invisible line in the beach-sand.  But we at Brainbooger make it a habit of surrounding ourselves with peculiar people.  Troy Park is such a person. 

An Asian, by trade, Troy has had a different upbringing than most Korean Americans, he therefore harbors a different view of the world through his tastefully slanted eyes. 

He's also a good friend and deep thinker who's above the pettiness of offense.  So I can talk shit about him.  Don’t try this at home however.  Making stereotypical remarks about races other than your own is often construed as “racism.”  God knows where that idea was spawned. 

It certainly wasn’t at the enlightened and inclusive Commune of Contemplation, Brainbooger.com.  Enough small talk, here’s Troy’s Revelation….

I had an epiphany last night, a realization of astounding proportions. The profoundness of my conclusion has a quality I can't name. Sheer poetry.

 Deep in my thoughts and words, a meta-world exists, which I could not comprehend until now. You as the psychologist know better than I.

San Francisco - a city of dreams. Unlike the vast parking lot we aptly call LA, it is a city like no other. 'Why?' I ask do I long for this place? A chump raised in the OC. Is it the architecture?  Am I gay?  Silicon Valley - 40 yr old virgins. Come on.  Is it the people?  No - a bunch of Chinks and fags cannot possibly it.  Diversity? That's a white man's term for sushi, burritos, and Asian pussy all in the same block. Culture? Another name for ugly people making ends meet trying to sell me shit I don't need.  The Golden Gate Bridge?  It’s just a piece of red metal. Food? God damn it.

I have no illusions.  I'm from SoCal - a place of money, cars, and pussy.  Like water and oil that repels,  I should be repelled.  My instincts won't allow it.  It's a thorn in my mind, never allowing a moment for clarity.

Instinct...

Basic Instinct.  The entire movie is shot in San Francisco.  When Sharon was young. No wrinkles.  A movie with tits and intelligence like none other.  Fucking in a beach home in Marin, fucking in Nob Hill, fucking in Pacific Heights.  Trying to kill Gecko with a Lotus in Mission. "Goodbye Nick. My book is done. I'll send you an autographed copy."  Brutal.  Crossing legs have never been such a mind-fuck. Ever. The only white woman I fell in love with.  She doesn't take anti-depressants.  She's not fat. She just does coke and men, in Danielle Steele's mansion, a true artist.

Basic Instinct.  Take off all the layers, and all you see is the abyss of our souls.  In our souls, only instincts remain, a quality without a name.  Cold.  Lucid.
....
  So. The answer, my friends, is the blowing wind and Sharon Stone’s twat. 

The fact is, Southern California is a land of unapologetic superficiality,  it's successful residents embrace this. 

To travel north of San Fran, or many other places for that matter, is to risk being affronted by a lame notion that a simple priority list designed to inspire jealousy and visceral thrills under a constant beam of sunshine and perfect weather while providing the trendiest of sustenance is in some way, remiss. 

That's a tough nut to swallow,  had better call Sharon Stone.
 
                                                                                                                                        -JPF