Rupert Goodwins' San Francisco IDF Diary

Friday 1/3/2002

What do you mean, Friday? It hasn't happened yet on this side of the globe. Which means there's no time to talk about the six-foot-five African American transvestite hookers built like rugby players, the life-affirming aspects of running red lights onto freeways by mistake, what happened when The Register met The Inquirer (I have pictures) or what really goes on under the tables of the San Francisco Museum Of Modern Art.

A correspondent suggests that the transvestites should actually form a rugby team and join the Six Nations, as it would make things a lot more interesting. I can find no fault in this argument, and commend it wholeheartedly to the house.

Gotta run. Plane to catch. See you back in Blighty.

(PS: Music of the trip: Geogaddi, by Boards of Canada on Warp Records. This ended up playing during every late night/early morning writing session back in the hotel, and if you like dark yet melodious electronic music hung about with mystery, paradox and Satie-like evocation of other worlds more wistful than our own, this is for you).

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