I JUST FLEW in from New York City, and boy are my arms tired. No, literally. DJ bags are heavy things, especially when being lifted into overhead compartments and slogged through mile-long terminals. And instead of Schwarzenegger biceps, all I've got to show for it are drooping arms, baseball-size knots in my back, and what feels like a mild concussion. Perhaps we should start a DJs union that'll negotiate chiropractic care into our contracts. I'm already saving for the old folks home – everyone's going to be deaf and listening to Mobb Deep. Holla.

If you're wondering what you're missing, I'll tell you what: it's your friends. I saw half of San Francisco out there, from my sometime colorist Jen to D&B DJs Elektra and Siren. Sue from Orthlorng Musork and DJ Jefrodisiac were there, and so was Rey, taking a break from his usual spot on the Top's doorstep next to Tuesday-night doorman Kwai Le Chef. What you're not missing is NYC's schizophrenic weather patterns, which – without notice – can add a feeling of impending apocalypse to an already strange atmosphere.

Did I mention the essential element I gleaned from two weeks spent observing the wildlife of North America's grimiest town? I stumbled upon the tripster, a cross between a hippy and a hipster. The tripster can be found buying bulk vintage and Rush vinyl, without sacrificing Brooklyn loft parties, not to mention congregating Friday nights at Tommy's Tavern in Greenpoint, a DJ night thrown by members of the band !!! (Chik, Chik, Chik). The night, Hot Taafe (pronounced "taffy"), was the freakiest shit I've seen in a while – a cross between a Full Moon rave from 1991 and something (I think, anyway) out of the early '70s: lots of funky white folks freaking out to James Brown and techno, with lead singer Nic Offer periodically turning off the lights and everyone screaming and rhythmically clapping.

At this point you may be saying to yourself, "Hey, I've gone to a few Sunset parties. I've bought Nag Champa incense before. Am I a tripster?" So I hereby offer you 10 ways to know whether you qualify: (1) you must shamelessly own a record by the Grateful Dead, Rush, or Yes; (2) guys must have a beard; girls, cut your own hair; (3) you live in an industrial space with a cat; (4) your idea of bonding is dancing in a circle (in a nonsexual way) with your male friends; (5) you like really freaked-out new music like Maurice Fulton's MU project and microhouse; (6) you like Sonic Youth but you hate modern-day jam bands; (7) you prefer your natural smell to deodorant; (8) you won't wear designer tennis shoes but you will wear clothes your fashion designer friends have made; (9) you secretly can do the dance moves from Soul Train but you would never admit to having "moves"; (10) you like Chappelle's Show (actually, forget that one – who doesn't like Chappelle's Show!).

If you're not a tripster, you may content yourself with being a member of the S.F. house scene, where there's been some awesome parties lately (Pal Joey at Red Wine, Lance Desardi and JT Donaldson at Green Gorilla), but which I predict will be seriously jocked in the months to come. Enjoy it both ways – the old and the new – at the Fake vs. Sluts of Sound party.

Wu-Tang's GZA plays with Vast Aire, Brother Ali, and Joe Quixx Thurs/22, 9 p.m., DNA Lounge, 375 11th St., S.F. $20. (415) 626-1409.

Fake vs. Sluts of Sound, with Wicked's Thomas, Ben Cook, M3, Omar, Anthony Garlic, and Jenny, Fri/23, 10 p.m., Sublounge, 628 20th St., S.F. $8 ($5 before 11 p.m.). (415) 552-3603.

Timeless, presented by the Fader magazine and featuring DJs Dusty Crates, I-Jonah, Robot Jones, and Select, Sat/24, 10 p.m.-4 a.m., Club Six, 60 Sixth St., S.F. $10 ($5 before 11 p.m.). (415) 863-1221.