You Know You're in San Francisco When . . .
You're a woman searching for Mr. Right in the personals, and you have to sort through "S&M," "BDSM," "AC/DC" and any other number of alphabet combos.
You're a guy looking for Ms. Right in the personals, and you have to sort through cross-dressing, transgendered, questioning, pre-op or post-op former gentlemen.
You're not angry because Al Gore's not the president; you're angry because you think Ralph Nader should have won.
Your kids find not only old toys in playground sandboxes but also used needles and condoms.
You see bathrooms labeled "His," "Hers" and "Others."
You celebrate Father's Day by laying a wreath for an unknown donor at the local biotech lab.
You're an unemployed dot-com refugee and college dropout with no job prospects, and you think it's the president who is stupid.
The homeless are offered conveniently located outdoor urinals (also known as door entryways), soup, medicinal pot, spare change and acoustic entertainment.
You're watching a TV program called "Queer Eyes for the Homeless Guys" and you see a cadre of metrosexuals donating facials and new color-coordinated begging signs with matching ensembles to a group of homeless men.
The bizarre mating rituals of the wildlife found in the bushes of our parks won't soon be seen on the Discovery Channel, as they're often of the kinky human variety.
Huge traffic jams are caused not by vegetable-oil-powered cars but by thousands of bicyclists intentionally messing up traffic just to irritate the Neanderthal motorists.
There is an extreme housing shortage, but the political establishment responds by not allowing builders to build.
You're surrounded by water on three sides, but you've still never been in it or out on it.
You see bumper stickers that proclaim, "I have a dog, and I
vote," signifying the City's dog-park wars. Here, it's OK for Rover to poop on the Little League field's first base, pee on second and dig up the pitching mound because, after all, dogs are people, too.
The district attorney loves to release criminals but is hot to arrest and prosecute the police chief and the top police brass.
Tricycle races are not just for toddlers but also for the grown-ups at the gay community's annual bar-hopping tricycle race.
Casual Friday has been replaced by Clothing-Optional Friday, and nudity is encouraged each year when roughly 50,000 runners, costumed thrill seekers, beer guzzlers and streakers hit the streets for the annual Bay to Breakers race.
Your family is making more than $125,000 a year, but you can't find a decent apartment, and you can't afford a house.
Your contractor is gay, but your hairdresser is straight.
The only flags being waved by marchers at parades have rainbows on them.
Married politicians can ask their fund-raisers to provide both cash and a new baby and not raise an eyebrow.
A parade for Cinco de Mayo, Mexico's national holiday, gets a bigger turnout than the one for Veteran's Day.
You get on the bus and you're surprised to actually hear a conversation in English.
The city government, with a budget of $5 billion -- larger than nearly 40 out of 50 states -- can't balance its checkbook and still complains that the taxes for corporations and the rich aren't high enough.
You actually find a parking spot, and you're so excited that you immediately sell your car.
The name of your child's second-grade teacher is Flipper, and he has more nose rings and bloody body piercings than a bull in Tijuana after the bullfight.
The only Republicans you know are President Bush and your deer-hunting uncle in Minnesota, and you hate 'em both.
Pot is legal, and tobacco is illegal.
You tell your daughter sex before marriage is OK, as long as she and her partner don't use your recreational drugs, your boyfriend, your priest or your bed.
You can't decide what to major in at college: astral projections, witchcraft, channeling or hating Republicans.
Every time there's an earthquake, you're under a table praying that the metropolis will finally get to break away from the mainland.
Each morning, while drinking a latte at Starbucks, you review a complete list of companies you need to boycott.
You think the Left is right and the Right is wrong.
You lament the negative impact of those awful big-box stores on local mom-and-pop hardware stores while you're complaining to the cashier at Home Depot.
You think illegal aliens have the right to work, but employers who hire the aliens should be arrested.
You think your mother should get a life and grow up, but you still refuse to move out of her house.
You think cop killers should go free and cops should be arrested.
You think "Alice in Wonderland" should be in the nonfiction section of the bookstore.
You enjoy books about the struggles of smaller, independent bookstores that are systematically being taken over by huge corporations -- and you buy them at Barnes and Noble.
You think big corporations and their tax shelters are harming America but your own under-the-table cash business isn't.
You won't cross a picket line, and you proudly display your "Buy Union" bumper sticker on your imported car.
You're not snobbish -- you just happen to honestly think it's only San Franciscans who know anything about politics, literature, love, food, fashion, culture and art, except for that high-brow director Michael Moore, of "Roger and Me" fame, who hails from Flint, Mich.
You think that the rest of America is replete with a bunch of screwed-up hillbillies, factory workers, farmers, hunters and veterans -- and that their only redeeming quality is that they pay taxes for the many social programs you, an unemployed artist, can enjoy.
Why, then, regardless of all these eccentricities, would a conservative columnist live in this town? Perhaps he wants to be the burr under the city's self-righteous, delusional and hypocritical saddle. Or perhaps he likes the excitement of working stealthily behind enemy lines as an embedded reporter. Or just maybe he's as nutty as the rest of 'em.
Adam Sparks is a San Francisco writer. He can be reached at
adamstyle@aol.com.