I went on a more or less blind date tonight; girl who's phone number I got last weekend, more than a few drinks along. Here's what went down. Feeling free to be assholically honest because this young woman doesn't have a computer, prolly never see it.

She's a fit white republican/libertarian deadhead bartender and sales enthusiast, an aspiring writer from small-town Michigan with an intense marijuanna habbit and a lot of big ideas about a government who's only function is to patrol the borders. She's 21; started a think-tank with a friend. Yeah, welcome to San Francisco.

But she's cute; gap toothed, competative in wit and a player at the game of pool. We did some sushi and some pool at a dive bar -- only one game head to head, but a jovial time -- then crossed town to hit up a house party at one of these pot clubs they have around here. Lot's of sturdy older folks with grass. Lawyers and clean-up titans balancing out the flaky or over the top denizens.

He's got clippings of his victories posted to the wall. "I got this guy and freed that guy and won this one; and this one, this one I defended the right of this local artist to sell his paintings on the streets. I see him out there sometimes." He's the right kind of guy, throwing out welcoming arms even to the needy and un-listening attention hogs and cynics of the world.

But it was mostly dead, so we got dutifully high and shot the shit a bit, my best moment feeling kinship with the rugged guy taking charge of the garbage. On the walk home digging the vibe of the city and having a girl to stroll with. We endured some slight tension in the red light tenderloin, a crowd of frattish guys with no manners, but soon hopped a vintage trolly, one of the old authentic San Francisco models from the art-deco era. Gorgeous atmostphere.

On the walk from there we found an art gallery thrown up over the ubiquitous poster advertisements. It was budget gallery, one of their wild postings. I got a good little painting (a touch warped, presumably by fog) for $15, and a token of my first night living in San Fransisco.

So the story has a dull ending. We went back to her place and met the roommates. I had water and made funny with everyone, some more smoke to go around, until eventually it was time to come home. She walked me and we hugged; and now I sit on my sleeping pad with my hip-bottle of wild turkey and it's last two inches.

I'm not back like that yet, and I don't know how to talk to younger girls and her chemicality was a little offputting. I feel like I imagine Jeremy did the first night he went out with Stanton, a wild party uptown and her SLC emegre wild child chafing with his straightlaced New England Mayflower style. Back in August 2001, the place where I met yuliya. But tonight I couldn't get any real chemestry going, even though the conversation was pretty good and she's certainly an attractive woman. Perhaps another spin before judgement. Can't help but think of this as one of those awful television shows, but I guess that's just part of the culture.