Later, while crossing the street, I ran into an old friend who I hadn't seen in at least five years. We made futile plans to reconnect later that evening, and I headed over to a big, huge, ginormous party at the DeYoung Museum in Golden Gate Park, hosted by the San Francisco Bay Guardian.

A happy little indie/pop/world-beat/folksy/punk band with a smokin' hot chick singer in Andes-boheme garb played to an ecstatic--but in a wholly sophisticated, fuck-you-if-you-make-me-spill-my-drink kind of way--audience. It was an immense crowd. I'd guess they numbered around 638-or-so billion.

And the people were freakishly beautiful (and by that I mean they were freaks) and intimidating as all hell. You could tell they were all doing something too cool and intellectual and good for humanity than I could ever imagine. I was in love. I was repulsed. I had the distinct feeling that yep, this is exactly what I asked for--these are my people and I should let them know at once that I have finally arrived!

And I felt more lonely than ever.