I was born in San Francisco, but tonight a woman's driving me round the City as if she's the native and I'm the tourist. She's right, though; it's an alternate world, an alternate City! Subtly surreal.

Or not so subtly. As she heads up Market Street past Castro, it enters the hills and bends, and a pedestrian bridge arcs over us. Not steel or concrete--it's made of big writhing branches--whole tree trunks really--with veins of smooth pale stuff like coconut meat. The steepest bits have wooden steps screwed on. But not boards--old wood-cased stereo equipment--amps and equalizers.

Just weird.

NEXT EVENING

My friend Steve Mobia has a big birthday party in an alternative theater space at 180 Capp Street. Steve's a surrealist; I wander through herds of experimental videographers and musicians with Dr. Seuss instruments. At last I reach the sound stage at the west end, and place my food offering on the table amid the salads & coconut rice...

Over that table looms the tree-bridge of my dream. Papier-maché trunks and branches grow out of the floor, up the walls and over the ceiling. One slanting trunk has wood steps leading up to a tiny treehouse--the sound stage's control room. Hidden in branches and leaves, stereo equipment--amps and equalizers.

Just weird. No, not just weird. Predictive.

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