"Well I don't like it," Perry said. "How about this: from now on when someone asks for permission we tell them no, we don't give out *or* withhold permission for joining the network, but we hope that they'll join it anyway. Maybe put up a FAQ on the site." "You'll just confuse people." "I won't be confusing them, man! I'll be educating them!" "How about if you add a Creative Commons license to it? Some of them are very liberal." "I don't *want* to license this. You have to *own* something to license it. A license is a way of saying, 'Without this license, you're forbidden to do this.' You don't need a license to click a link and load a webpage -- no one has to give you permission to do this and no one could take it away from you. Licensing just gives people even worse ideas about ownership and permission and property!" "It's your show," Tjan said. "No it *isn't*! That's the *point*!" "OK, OK, it's not your show. But we'll do it your way. You are a lovable, cranky weirdo, you know it?" They did it Perry's way. He was scheduled to go back to Florida a few days later, but he changed his ticket to go out to San Francisco and meet with the crew who were implementing the ride there. One of them taught interaction design at SFSU and brought him in to talk to the students. He wasn't sure what he was going to talk to them about, but when he got there, he found himself telling the story of how he and Lester and Tjan and Suzanne and Kettlebelly had built and lost the New Work movement, without even trying. It was a fun story to tell from start to finish, and they talked through the lunch break and then a group of students took him to a bar in the Mission with a big outdoor patio where he went on telling war stories until the sun had set and he'd drunk so much beer he couldn't tell stories any longer. They were all ten or fifteen years younger than him, and the girls were pretty and androgynous and the boys were also pretty and androgynous, not that he really swung that way. Still, it was fine being surrounded by the catcalling, joking, bullshitting crowd of young, pretty, flirty people. They hugged him a lot, and two of the prettier girls (who, he later realized, were a lot more interested in each other than him) took him back to a capsule hotel built across three parking-spots and poured him into bed and tucked him in. He had a burrito the size of a football for breakfast, stuffed with shredded pig-parts and two kinds of sloppy beans. He washed it down with a quart of a cinnamon/rice drink called horchata that was served ice-cold and did wonders for his hangover. A couple hours' noodling on his laptop and a couple bags of Tecate later and he was feeling almost human. Early mariachis strolled the street with electric guitars that controlled little tribes of dancing, singing knee-high animatronics, belting out old Jose Alfredo Jimenez tunes.