A lone dancer pirouettes across a vacant dancefloor in Sacramento, Calif. Across town, in his governor’s mansion, Arnold Schwarzenegger dreams up new legislation. Downtown, the owners of the eateries close their shops. “No food after 9 p.m.!” they purr. Meanwhile, the tattooed children bear the marks of a city that spawned “!!!.” Would freezing San Francisco be better for the children, or perhaps the noirish streets of Los Angeles? The children knoweth not.

But what goeth before the dancer, and what cometh after? The dancer has not seen; the dancer does not know.

The dancer does not know the soundman. “Old Ironsides is my kingdom!” cries the soundman. He struts about the room the way a king struts about the room. “A Sunn bass amplifier!” the soundman observes. “I owned the first Sunn bass amplifier that ever came off the assembly line!” The band doubts his assertion, but busies itself with the tuning of its instruments. “A Rickenbacker guitar!” the soundman observes. “I own the only sunburst Rickenbacker ever made!” The guitarist observes his own sunburst Rickenbacker, and wonders about the soundman. “No bass drum in the monitors!” the soundman cries. The drummer regards the monitors. In a quiet moment, the drummer wonders: “Why not?”

The dancer does not know the promoter. “I shall move to Philadelphia!” the promoter cries. There is a man from Philadelphia in the room. He stares at the promoter and wonders. The promoter is a good man, a remixer of fine music. Philadelphia tempts the promoter, threatens to pull him in. Perhaps Philadelphia will be better for the promoter, a fine place to remix fine music for hungry DJs. The man from Philadelphia wonders—if this promoter moves to Philadelphia, who will book shows in Sacramento? Three-thousand miles to east, Philadelphia cocks her head and cackles. Her shrill scream pierces the American night.

The dancer does not know the other dancers. “What city are you from?” asks a comely lass. “What is the name of your band again?” asks a comely lad. “Why is no one dancing?” wonders a comely lass. “Why is no one dancing?” wonders the comely band. “What is the name of your band again?” asks a comely lad. The guitarist packs up. Someone has stolen three CDs. “Who has stolen three CDs?” the guitarist wonders. The band loads out. “A ‘C’ is average and, all-in-all, I grade this night a ‘C,’” says the guitarist. “No,” insists his bandmate. “I grade this night a ‘D.’”

A lone dancer pirouettes across a vacant dancefloor in Sacramento, Calif. The dancer sees much; the dancer knows much. But there is also much the dancer has not seen and the dancer knoweth not. The dancer may dance, but she dances alone as the band plays alone and we live and die alone. What of this dancer? Stirring in the California night, Sacramento cocks her head and cackles.

Seventy-five miles north of San Francisco, jubilant UC Davis students explore their bodies and experiment with their minds in peace. I know because I played a show last night at Delta of Venus, Davis’s premier indie rock cafe. All audience members regarded our music closely and danced Uncle Jerry dances with the unbesmirched aplomb of the young and carefree. Three hours later in San Francisco, Davis’s untroubled landscape was forgotten—I was struggling to understand a concept called “curbing one’s wheels.”

In San Francisco, curbing one’s wheels isn’t just popular—it’s the law. But what does curbing one’s wheels mean? Curbing one’s wheels is parking insurance—if the emergency brakes of those who park their automobiles on the San Francisco’s hilly avenues fail, the wheels of these automobiles are turned towards the curb so that assorted liberal pedestrians and children are not run over by runaway vehicles. Whenever I am in San Francisco, I can’t remember whether I should turn my wheels to the left (as if I was emerging from a parking space) or the right (as if I was entering one). I must remind myself to assume that my emergency brake will fail and the car will roll down the hill to flatten a liberal pedestrian or child. If I am parking on an upward slant, I must turn my steering wheel to the left. Then, if my brake fails, my car comes to rest against the curb, and does not flatten a liberal pedestrian or child. However, if I am parking on a downward slant, the reverse is true—I must turn my steering wheel to the right. Then, if my brake fails, my car comes to rest against the curb, and does not flatten a liberal pedestrian or child.

Perhaps my problems with curbing my wheels do not make compelling reading material. In truth, contemplating curbing my wheels is not my favorite activity, let alone something to write about. However, imagine if you had woken up in San Francisco, spent the afternoon gambling at Lucky Chances, driven to Davis, played a show, driven back to San Francisco, been forced to find a parking spot at 3 a.m. and, using your exhausted brain, been forced to correctly curb your wheels. As a bonus, also imagine that you would be forced to wake up less than five hours later to move your car so it would not be towed and, while exhausted, be forced to figure out to curb your wheels again at 8 a.m. Perhaps then, you would understand how the seemingly insignificant act of curbing your wheels fits into the puzzle of your existence and quickly turns into an obsession.

“Do you want to know something about this business?” asked the drunken silver-haired clubowner.

I stood alongside representatives of local San Franciscian bands Black Fiction and Tussle in the office at the Uptown, a deserted club in downtown Oakland. A healthy number of dedicated humans had braved the trip to this inaccessible venue—after 10 p.m. on a Sunday, downtown Oakland bears a hearty resemblance to bustling metropoli like Jackson, Miss. and Wilkes-Barre, Pa. Despite an adequate turnout, our three bands had managed to net a mere $100, and were waiting for this absurd blowhard to finish his tirade so that we could divide our earnings.

“Business?” I asked. “What business is that?” My response employed sarcasm, a popular conversational technique. I have endured a lot of advice about the music business from silver-haired baby boomers. I am 30 years old and have toured for ten years. I do not need advice about the biz from silver-haired fiftyish clubowners who might once have smoked pot with someone who once smoked pot with Bill Graham.

“The music business!” the owner said. “I’ve been in this business a long time. I managed Eddie Money.”

“In your adventures with Mr. Money, were you able to learn what $100 divided by three is?” I asked.

The clubowner pushed our meager earnings our way. “I’ll tell you something about the music business,” he said. “This business—there’s no money in it!” he exclaimed.

“That’s evident,” I said, collecting my portion of the $100. As $100 is not evenly divisble by three, this was no easy task.

The clubowner pointed to a trio of Heinekens. The Heinekens, sitting on the desk in the Uptown’s office, coolly regarded one other. “Can I at least offer you a beer?” said the clubowner.

“No thank you, sir,” I said. I pointed to a representative of Tussle. “I am this man’s father. For this reason, I forego alcohol consumption to set a good example.”

“What?” said the clubowner.

“However,” I continued. “I am an amateur photographer. Might I take your photograph?”

The clubowner agreed, and his photograph is posted above. In the photo, he is holding a photo of Bill Graham. No doubt he and the photo sit in his office late at night, trading anecdotes of legendary Grateful Dead precussion jams and bad acid trips with the Jefferson Airplane.

Hippie vision quests are the province of young persons, many of whom hail from the West coast. Hippie vision quests revolve around an existential search for meaning. This search may involve rail-riding, dumpster-diving, sleeping outdoors, and the consumption of alcohol and psychedelic drugs. I support existential searches for meaning but, in my life, have busied myself with my rearing, education, failure to attend law school, and subsequent aesthetic pursuits. For this reason, I have not had time to pursue hippie vision quests.

Last night, I met a dreadlocked youth at a house show in Goleta. I suspect that this youth had embarked on a hippie vision quest. After all, Goleta is very dark at night and home to a university. The seductive Pacific Ocean beckons through whispering vegetation. A fine environment for a hippie vision quest!

The dreadlocked quester and I stood in the kitchen eating vegan hotdogs with collegiate youths who had thrown the house show. During a lull in the conversation, the quester spoke.

“I hope it’s cool if I stay another month,” the quester said to the collegiate youths. He described a state of homelessness. “If I can’t stay, I’ll be on the street,” he concluded.

The quester’s “housemates” did not respond. I intuited that the youths doubted the sustainability of their “houseguest’s” vision quest. I inserted myself into the conversation.

“Shit, dude,” I said, employing casual profanity. “Your housing predicament sounds quite dark. Is all well with you?” All heads in the room turned to me. I intuited that I had committed a faux pas.

“No, it’s cool,” said the vision-quester. “I live in an R.V.”

“Oh,” I said. “And you park this R.V. at various locales?”

“Yes,” said the vision-quester.

“What freedom!” I exclaimed. Then, I made various comments about how cool R.V.’s are. I must confess that I do not understand what R.V.’s are, who purchases R.V.’s, or the R.V.’s function in American society.

After this ill-fated exchange, I played a show on a back porch for twenty teenage marijuana enthusiasts. I received $18 for my efforts. I split these receipts with Black Fiction, tourmates from San Francisco. Nine dollars remained. My portion of these proceeds was $3.

This is a very small amount of money, I thought. Many hippie vision-questers earn more than this via “temp” employment. Does this mean that I am on my own hippie vision quest? In answer, the seductive Pacific Ocean beckoned through Goleta’s whispering vegetation.