My first couple days back in the city, I ran around sorta aimlessly visiting old haunts and trying to rediscover what I thought was cool about San Francisco. I walked around my old hood in upper Haight, perusing the musty yet uber-trendy thrift stores--er, excuse me, vintage boutiques--and trying to find a seat at any of my once favorite affably accessible/now-hipster-exclusive coffee shops, greasy spoons and dive bars.

Not really feeling the love there, I walked on down to lower Haight, knowing that its familiar lowdown and dirty ambience would take a layer of pretense off the urban attitude being splashed upon me as if by a bus through an overflowing sewer.

But bar after dismal bar further dampened my spirit and not my tongue, as bartender after dismal fucking bartender chose to ignore me in lieu of their own cocktail, scowling as I smiled a polite howdoyoudo.

Hunched over and head bent down, I kicked open the half-door to my old pal the Noc Noc, grunted an order for a beer and sat at one of their weird artsy stools that were awkwardly nailed down a little too close together.

The three other people at the bar--obviously professional rockstars--talked music business with the bartender.

"I'd rather be a bad band with a good name than a good band with a bad name," said one dude. "Well... in this town anyway."