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.

So I recently discovered that outgoing mail from me sent between tuesday and thursday may not have gone out. If you're expecting to hear from me, ping me again please.

The clickyclackityclickyclack is starting to decline and the power-stroke is coming on; foot pedal crank gear chain gear hub spoke wheel rubber road -- streaming away into the past along with time's arrow, freewheel burning. Tomorrow I should be signing for an apartment. The signal to noise ratio is improving as the number of moving parts in my life approaches a managable level. Meeting people is easy, business is falling into place with the power of superconducting magnets. We're definitely in sync with the laws of physics here. Plus I got a new toy!

See my new haircut? Thanks kim!

I could get soft out here... iSights, Aeron chairs (50% off at the .com repo furniture warehouse; I kid you not) and an office with a retractable roof in a place where it's seemingly sunny all the time. The only thing we lack is a good stock of juiceboxes in the fridge.

So hopefully the momentum will continue as the process becomes streamlined. Rumble young man rumble; looking forward to setting up camp here in the Bay, maybe even meeting some girls. I picked up a few phone numbers last weekend, but life has been such a fireball I haven't followed up on any of that. Young girls; I don't even know how to talk to them. Suppose I better learn.

If you're feeling a little blue, maybe you just need a group hug. It takes your confession -- some are just brilliant -- and displays it in charming style. I like; helps if you write all lowercase, like ee cummings, who I recently discovered was one handsome man.

Up at 6:50. Out by 7:20. Home around 9. Reminds me of the good old days. It's all a thing of beauty except I forgot to eat between 10am and getting home and arrived in the mother of all foul moods; Donner party on edge. These are shaping up to be some protean times.

My underwriter buddy Britt Blaser is continuing to pound out some righteous bits:

My concern this Presidential election cycle is that the free trade of ideas and their stakeholders may be as threatening to politicians as to entrenched commercial interests. That's why I've established the Free the Internet Contribution page at Dean for America. Dean is the only candidate with a vested interest in a free and open Internet, so he's the only candidate we can trust to defend it against the establishment.

That's what it is, friends. My man Howard Dean is set to raise more money this quarter than any other Democrat has ever done in the same period, and it's being done largely on the backs of small contributions; average size hovering around $100.

Imagine the implications here. I was taking the train today with some people on their way back from an anti-occupation protest, one fellow with a "tired of being fucked by politics?" button depicting hot Elephant on Donkey action. While I don't take that stance, I do see where this kind of frustration comes from. If we can maintain the momentum and growth of the Dean campaign, we'll be well on our way to making that particular brand of apathy obsolete.

There was one protester who had to borrow a couple bucks on the BART to pay his way out -- part of the eccentricity of that particular mass-transit system -- but most of the sign-carrying folk were well attired and had an air of material comfortability about them. So I wanted to ask them to get their hands dirty and buy a share of the process, but I didn't; too tired. But I wish I had. This time around everyone's a tycoon if they want to be.

And if you don't have the cash to spare that's allright too; you probably have time and friends and a spark of ingenuity. In spite of how easy it is to imagine a massive populist war chest -- just a million people giving a thousand each -- the likely reality is that Dubya will be able to outspend anyone. The difference is going to be made up by soul; by volunteer hours and word-of-mouth advertising; by human-centric processes happening over bi-directional networks, both personal and packet-switched. The difference is going to be individuals who've awakened to their agency in the process and who are exercising their right to be participants, to be producers of politics and not just consumers. The difference will be you and me.

People moving in blocks and waves across the Bay Area Rapid Transit; tough-looking Raiders fans, more mainstream Giants enthusiasts, marginalized Iraq occupation protesters, leathermen and assorted queers from the Folsom street fair. Through it all I swim with a giant 40-pound Schwinn, my San Francisco steel horse, trying my best not to bump into people, to smile in the sunshine.

Pending a credit check I have a place to live, a truly gorgeous apartment in the Southwest Mission. Nice wood floors, high celings, a patio out back in a part of town that's near the throb and hum, but just far enough off it to feel like a neighborhood. A little excited to have a place to call home.

I seem to be catching a lot of breaks, things really clicking and heating up. Can this continue? I hope so.

It's hitting home that I'm starting something new out here, that New York is for now a thing of the past. Strange memories bubble up on a thursday night. The time I fooled around with that beautiful, tall, smart girl who'd stage managed for radio/active right before heading back to Oregon for a holiday; John Lennon popping on from her iMac in the middle of kissing, and everything going just swimmingly. She'd never had good head before, and I had to rush home and pack and leave and it wasn't a graceful exit. Never saw her that way again.

I remember a night in soho -- back when it wasn't quite the outlet mall that it is today -- being cold for only wearing my leather jacket and a wife beater. I remember freshman-year conversations with Frank, confessing my virginity on Astor place. I remember the glory days of Byamo, a Cuban/Chinese fusion place on Broadway across from Tisch where you could get killer rice and beans for $2, or a half chicken for $4. I remember biking into the city from Brooklyn the first time, the night after I stayed over with Yael. I remember the Tunnel and the MoMa and the three-dollar hot chocolate.

I remember good times in Greenpoint; Monday-night football with free ziti and cheap mugs of Bud at the Palace. I remember underage sneaking into Panchitos. I remenber second-year projects at ETW, and feeling like it was too much to follow Peter Hale's act, for he was taller than be and had done a rock and roll performance. I remember discovering Inwood because of a Russian math girl, and building Opera sets on the Upper East Side. I remember helping out with an ERS benefit and being an ass when some older lady invited me out on the lower east side. I remember stealing a christmas decoration left up until march and delivering it to a one-night-stand that I wanted more from very late at night, drunken note attached.

I remember Shakespeare; in the park; in the home; on the stage; in the bathtub and in German on acid. I remember the first time I discovered Battery Park City, the quiet and the autumn mist and the sound of kayakers on the Hudson as I rode my bike by. I remember pulling off a girl's belt with my teeth for the first time in the floor of my dorm room. I remember being blind drunk and mighty high too on a dead man's pot on the Statin Island Ferry, fucking up a cardboard box and puking in both bathrooms when I finally made it home. I remember the magic that christmas would work on the whole place; the power of small lights to make any place seem humble and inviting. I remember cabs over bridges and trains underground, slicing through times square on a bicycle in traffic, the sheer urban beauty, dreams and desires, concrete and light.

In all these things I remember the unique thrill and amazing electricity of New York City; heaving, steaming, perpetually teaming bitch goddess that it is. It is hope and pain and anger and love forged together in the most dense human metal known to God, a testament to what is possible. As Douglas Macarthur said, I shall return, but my heart lurches and swoons as it seeps in that I don't quite know when or how that will be. I miss it all tonight as I listen to the silence of Berkeley. I love you, New York.

I'm in California now. Working it full-time double plus. I live and breathe the revolution for a year now. Light updates for a while as ramp-up begins. If you can, give money to Howard Dean. The amount you spend on a night at the bar is enough to make a difference.

Also, on Dean and Clark and the Eisenhower precident, Britt's got some interesting analysis from a friend. I tend to think that this election cycle has no real precident, but if people are going to shuffle through history, they might as well get it right.

I'm very happy with the way my life is going, but the changes still engender sadness. I'm moving. To San Francisco. I'm leaving New York City, my home now for some six years, and for the first time I don't know when I will return. The wheels are spinning and life is ramping up for another big shift. Hoping for smooth transition -- avoiding a stall, minimizing the aroma of burning clutch.

In the odd early morning hours odd fantasies creep in. I've been up all night packing and goofing off and thinking about things. What will the conditions of my next trip to town be? What would it be like if I lived off in rugged New England, spent time verbally sparring and making out with country-musician lawyers. What dreams may come.

I hit the circuit of friends. The final rounds. I saw Sasha again, which was easier to do and harder to walk away from than I anticipated. Still a lot going on there, not that it's of much consequence at the moment. Then a long ride through the City and into Queens to have good Puerto Rican dinner with Sam and Andrew; keep the connections alive and flowing. Finally a couple drinks in a couple Brooklyn bars and staying up all night packing and posting in a fun thread on dKos.

I'm moving. I'm moving. I'm moving. I'll miss you New York.

Dick Gephardt's campaign is the first to launch a negative campaign website against another Dem candidate. See deanfacts.com for all the ugly business. There's also another site -- waffle powered howard -- which does about the same thing with less accuracy and without attributing its source, but a whois query tells us it's registered to Eric Huebner, who also runs this pro-kerry site so I think that mystery is solved.

Hopefully these are the last, but I fear that won't be the case. This is total bullshit for three reasions:

• Going negative, especially this early, against another Dem is bad for the party -- it's free ammo for Bush
• The quotes are circa 1995 -- if we wanted to dig through everything anyone said over the past 10 years, we'd probably find some things that conflict with his or her positions today
• This tactic is intended to supress participation -- to keep people dispirited and out of the process

The last reason is the one that really gets me. This election is about whether or not we can break the cycle of fear and non-participation that has dominated politics for so long, and become intolerable over the past few years. Gephardt's campaign and at least one member of Kerry's grassroots are giving in to the dark side. Let's keep our eyes on the prize, and let's keep turning people on with participation.