It happens less often these days, but once in a while, someone will tell me how excited they are to move out to the bay area, to hang out and be the punkest yet, the king of the hill, and how much they long to escape from whatever "boring and pathetic" town they live in currently. Here's a story of a typical day in the punk scene here, an inside look at all the place that makes all the hype.
   I went to a punk picnic in golden gate park, at Marx meadows. I'm never sure if it's named after Karl or Groucho. Fields of shit, lungbutter, Black fork, and a few other local bands were supposed to play. Golden Gate park is a lush green place, with fields set among groves of Eucalyptus trees. It had been raining, so most of Marx meadows was a mud bog. About 20 people were sitting on a log in front of a tarp that had been spread out on the ground in anticipation of the bands. I eavesdropped on a conversation between two crusties, sharing their prized forty of St. Ides. They were talking about their recent adventures in LA, where they had made a living by jumping old men and stealing their wallets. "man, the fucking pigs suck.!"
  "fucking a man."
  "They didn't need to put puke in jail."
  "fuckin a man."
  "It wasn't like he had a gun or nothing, he was just shoving that old guy around."
  "fuckin a man."
  "I mean, he didn't know he was going to break his fucking hip. I mean fuck!" It brought back fond memories of the last time I'd been to a punk picnic. My old band had played a show in the same place, with Blatz, Fifteen, special forces, and Green Day. That would be a pretty funny line-up now. On the way back from the store, I had overheard some kids talking about "the chink store owner" asking for their ID. I made some comment over the microphone about the stupidity of racism from people who were supposed to be angry with the state of society. The next thing I knew, both of our microphones had been taken by two huge guys who started a heated argument about who was less racist. Luckily, they left the microphones to go beat each other up, so the show could continue.
   Anyway, fields of shit had begun to play. They tried to make it through about ten songs, but they couldn't remember how to play any of them. This problem was compounded by the fact that no-one could figure out how to make the generator work, so if a song lasted longer than a minute, the circuit breaker would go, and all the amps would switch off.
   During this, some of the more ecologically active punks had decided to dump out all of the trash cans all over the middle of the meadow, so they could use them to roll down the hill. We were now about 50 people in the middle of a gorgeous park, with a band that couldn't remember their songs and mounds of plastic, paper and garbage blowing around the field.
   Fields of shit decided that they'd had enough, and some homeless man who'd had to much stimulation from all the people running around his neck of the woods (so to speak), started standing in front of the tarp, dropping his pants, and giving the audience a free chance to become a proctologist. two of the absolutely filthy kids who were rolling down the hill got into a fight over who was to get the next ride. Drunken, red-faced screaming turned into a fist fight, and someone else took the trash can. Jack and I decided to take a walk to the store and get a snack. When we returned, a different band was trying to get the generator to last long enough to make it through a song. Someone in the audience had decided that they were "too poppy," and was throwing mud at them. He saw that this was having no effect, and started throwing bottles. Add broken glass to the collection of garbage we'd deposited in the park. The name "fields of shit" was beginning to make some sense.
   On the other side of the field, someone had passed out. Some kids had dragged him under a tree, and had kindly taken his shirt off (it was about 50 degrees out) and were applying first aid by rubbing his belly and hands gently. Somebody asked Jack for some of his chips, but had been so offended that jack had only offered him a small handful that he threw them on the ground, stomped on them and screamed "fuck you!" in his best fake English accent. He was probably the same guy who had been among the legions of punk kids who spend their day screaming obscenities at anyone and begging for change who had turned down my offer of the rest of my veggie sandwich. "fuck that man, I need money for beer!"
   Another band had started trying to play. Maybe it was lungbutter. A park ranger showed up. The kids applying first aid saw a man in uniform, panicked, and tried to drag their patient to his feet. When that didn't work, they dropped him heavily on the ground and tried to apply CPR to him, even though he was obviously breathing. (a note to anyone who doesn't get it: Applying CPR to someone whose heart is going is a good way to STOP their heart.) I heard more sirens, and an ambulance and two cop cars pulled up at the far end of the meadow. I don't know what happened next, Jack and I left.
   So there you have it. This show was as good as most of them. Welcome to San Francisco. Stay the hell off the muni tracks.