I am on an extended research trip. Specifically, my travels bring me to Palo Alto and San Francisco. At Stanford, where the manufactured scarcity of parking is predictably matched by inflated prices for spots, it dawns on me what universities are: the last vestiges of the company town. Check out the prices of textbooks at the company store if you don't believe me. In an effort to shake off West Coast flakiness and become embraced as a serious institution of public learning, Stanford has apparently instituted a vigorous affirmative action program aimed at ugly coeds--a surefire way to become known as the Harvard of the West. Stanford is a good place to get a degree, but I wouldn't want to party there.

To change the subject from the homely to the hot, a first: I catch sight of an attractive homeless woman outside of the San Francisco Public Library. The blond and three confederates share a joint without the least effort to conceal their illicit activities. The (cigarette) smokers outside the library's doors are not so lucky, and receive a scolding from library security. Public Library + San Francisco = Homeless. Free Books, Free Bathrooms, Free Men. The library is the epicenter of the local homeless community, within which, with my grubby garb, aversion to shaving, and presence at the library long before opening for three consecutive days, I am accepted. For example, one community member of seemingly high repute spots me smoking a cigar and makes a friendly comment, amid uncontrolled laughter, of how good it smells and how he needs to get himself one. His gregarious nature is not shared by all the members of this urban subculture. One down-on-her luck San Franciscan berates passersby while another young man uses the "f" word in a most loud yet clever manner.

Civilization inside the hulking institution doesn't differ much from civilization outside it. As I enter the library, a busybody passes out flyers promoting a lecture on the dangers of cell phone use. I think the better of placing my cell phone to my head as a method of evading her unwelcome conversation. I just avoid eye contact and imagine us engaged in a game of tag in which I must not let her invade my eighteen-inch line-of-death personal space. Another patron, not so wise in the ways of escaping conversations with lunatics, politely declines a flyer. The rudeness is too much for the pamphleteer, who remarks: "Die of a brain tumor if you want." My fear of such crazy people is so great that, just to stay on the safe side, I generally avoid all people.

Other library vignettes color my picture of San Francisco. "You can't take your shoes and socks off in here," a security guard explains to a library patron (not me, I assure you). So enthusiastic are the locals about doing their part for the environment that, in the first floor restroom, gentlemen double up to share a stall. Elsewhere on the first floor, I spot a transsexual engaged in a spirited conversation with an invisible adversary.

There was no escape, even in my cab ride. It starts off bad when I immediately notice the cabbie's car radio turned on to eleven. Responding to the driver's query as to my reason for travelling to San Francisco, I respond over the din that I am interested in, among other topics, the stevedore philosopher Eric Hoffer. The taxi driver, resembling the taxi driver if not in appearance than in mental condition, responds: "You know who's a really brilliant writer? Adolf Hitler. Have you ever read Mein Kampf?" The conversation went downhill from there.

I planned my research trip as a crash course on intellectual history and Bay Area politics. It becomes anthropological fieldwork among San Franciscus Lunaticus. Sensing the danger, I depart before I go native.

Dan... I often read your posts, daily in fact, and while most are insightful, I truley enjoy the ones that make me laugh. This one did just that.
By the way, I was looking through an old photo album and I saw of picture that I took of a Marine named Leubecker giving a thumbs up gesture. He was kneeling by the side of the road helping a Marine buddy out while he emptied his gut after a hard night of drinking in New Orleans about a decade ago. I see that picture and remember a good AT.

I would assume that these are the same group of folks who (or likely the same group of folks who live in the area that....) catapult Nancy Pelosi to the House regularly. Is it any wonder that in this case the Representative represents her constituency perfectly?

San Fransicko, I've heard it called. Was out there in the 70's for a spell and I can attest to that. Sounds like not much has changed.

I love SF. It's one of the most beautiful spots on earth, and those people REALLY don't deserve it.

Go home, I can assume your wife and kids miss you.

Michael Savage is responsible for the San Fransicko moniker.
Speaking of which, nice to hear you on Savage's show last night, Dan.

Eric Hoffer! When we will see an article or book on him?

So you're saying that we've finally perfected the crazy bomb over there.