presents

Born in
San Francisco

• Written by Francesco Muzzopappa
• Illustrated by Jeromy Velasco

BBetween San Francisco and the rest of the world there is, as they say in the movies, a sort of dissolve.

Everything here is different, further, more.

See for yourself.

The steep inclines—almost vertical—play on the eyes, eliciting powerful emotions which are, at times, almost overwhelming. And then there’s the sky; so intensely blue, and so vast. Just looking up at it you can feel its weight, tremendous, like it can tear you apart with its hugeness. A sky that envelops you with its joy, squeezing your very soul.

It’s a city that dominates you with its excess, San Francisco: too many Victorian buildings, too many pastel colors, too much sea, too much grace, too much beauty, too much culture. In San Francisco, too much of a good thing is a great thing.

And then there is its progressive spirit, the musical avant-gardism boldly streaking across the stage of The Fillmore, the pivotal and precocious emergence of diversity. The first challenges to social conventions, the liberating strength of crossdressing and gender-bending, and the function of San Francisco as an open city – a place where anything goes – were all born and flourished under this sky.

But that’s not all.

forever hung on North Beach walls, on the murals along Jack Kerouac Alley. On the road as you walk, talk, meet, smile, observe. Once you get to the Golden Gate Bridge, the symbol of all symbols, it’s there that everything explodes, and you begin to feel indebted.

This wonder is a gift, a reward, and it’s free and all for you.

Develop these pictures in your head and hold onto them for a moment so you can truly savor them: hold onto the true spirit of San Francisco, the bridge, the houses, the sea, and the sky.

100% pure filtered water. Four-times distillation, alright. Three-times filtering.

But it’s more than that. What we should really be talking about is the taste. Clean and crisp, like the sky in SF, the city by the bay, pure and blue like the cobalt blue bottle. Crystal-clear vodka, standing out from the crowd.

You sit down at a café, let’s say the Caffè Trieste, where Coppola wrote most of the screenplay for "The Godfather",

or how about the corner where Columbus Avenue meets Broadway, underneath the flock of books flying away from the permanent installation of "Language of the Birds". You gesture toward the waitress. When she comes over,

to taste that perfect view. A little later in the day you pass a young, besotted couple as you enter the Castro, the neighborhood famous for being the setting of Harvey Milk’s gay activism. They kiss underneath the vast blue roof of the freest city. Further on two green eyes enchant you. Those hands are gentle, yet playful, holding a Skyy Martini between the fingers, too.

Together, you capture everyone’s imagination. In the background, the murmur of the crowd around you; in the foreground, your eyes meet in a close-up as your hearts beat faster and faster.

The camera pans out from above, the sun floods the scene with light and then, slowly, the pictures—simply—dis-solve.