Exciting news! Last night as I was beginning my evening patrol and just after finishing my Mexican burrito at one of the many local taquerias, I may have, quite unintentionally, discovered a wholly new hipster species.

It appears to be exclusive to the local environs and has likely evolved wholly separate from all other known hipster species, despite maintaining breeding grounds and habitat right alongside, even overlapping, with our more common species.

Exciting news indeed!

Much work must still be done, but I am tentatively calling this clever and fascinating creature the Western Bearded Crack-Eater. I'm not too proud to admit: this, like so many of the (dare I say) great scientific discoveries, began haphazardly.

Being still unfamiliar with my surroundings and suffering acute disorientation after consuming the prohibitively spicy contents of my El Mojado Burrito (May contain some type of psychotropic agent. Will have it analyzed) I broke from my usual route and, quite beside myself, staggered down an unfortunate looking alley.

Suddenly I found myself faced with a roguish figure, who in the half light, I mistook for one of the more familiar hipster species, perhaps a Sweater-Bellied Hipsterati, albeit, an extremely aggressive, unwashed specimen -- for he exuded a decidedly foul odor. Perhaps some type of territorial marking mechanism.

Clad in a soiled demin blazer of indeterminate vintage, too-long woolen trousers, ruined wingtips and an raffish purple head piece (much like a turban, it was twisted around his head in an elaborate knot), the subject was struggling with his lower zipper, having apparently just finished micturating upon the alley wall.

Hoping to gain favor with the man, I politely inquired as to the location of the nearest poetry reading or suitable used book depository, whereupon he casually belched forth a string of alien words, such as I have never encountered, and which I can only assume are typical of the local crack-eater dialect, a partial transcription of which follows:

'Wha nutha mutha-fucka ... (indecipherable) wha-choo wan? (indecipherable) ... you na po-po, outta ma mutha-fucken fae ...sevey fi cen fah da bus?'

I cannot describe the excitement that overcame me upon hearing this bizarre dialect! What happened next I cannot fully explain, except to say that I was overtaken with joy at my discovery and still intoxicated by the strange burrito-euphoria, for I then embraced the subject and bid him hearty hello -- a mistake which nearly cost me the entire evening and, yes, even my life itself -- for he grew extremely agitated and nearly felled me in his attempts to free himself. Poor creature! I must have scared him half to death in my glee.

But luck prevailed. I regained my composure and the crack-eater fled only a few feet before I was able to stall his retreat with assurances of my friendly intentions. After several minutes of awkward attempts at conversation via hand gestures we forged an alliance of sorts. He conveyed to me his name as Shithead (a popular moniker among the crack-eaters, from what I gather), and said that he would be happy to lead me to more of his splendid people for a cursory fee of one dollar. Well worth the price, I think. By and by, Mr. Shithead brought me to a herd of his fellow crack-eaters, all the while holding forth in his peculiar dialect.

I was fascinated to learn that this particular herd of crack-eaters, and perhaps the entire species, are nomadic. Their primary territory stretches along Mission Street from 15th to 20th and like most hipster species, they appear to eschew conventional modes of dress and speech in favor of second hand clothing and an amalgam of invented language.

The differences between the rock-eater and other hipsters, however, cannot be overstated. Foremost, the rock-eaters appear to have successfully adapted to the mild outdoor climate of San Francisco and so make their homes out-of-doors, moving their quaint gypsy caravans nearly every night, though never straying very far from their beaten trade paths along Mission.

And whereas most hipster species subsist primarily on used records, organic macaroni and cheese and Pabst Blue Ribbon, the crack-eaters have but one staple food: small white pebbles, alternately referred to as 'rocks,' 'crack,' or simply 'the shit,' which seem to serve not only as their primary food source but also as an important spiritual and emotional salve, for they spend nearly every waking hour seeking out and consuming crack, and seem to have few other interests.

As for recreation, the crack-eaters of Mission Street are a relaxed and playful species. After consuming their breakfast rocks, they often spend hours at a time lazing in the sun, rough-housing in the street, directing traffic, greeting pedestrians and passionately reciting what I can only assume are the great epic poems of the crackish language.

They are a tight-knit community, often gathering round the bus stop in the evening for lively discussions of current events and how to improve conditions in the community. On this particular evening they concluded that more crack must be the foundation of any improvement. Incidentally, Mr. Shithead has agreed to school me fully in the crackish language in exchange for a small weekly fee (you will find this included in my monthly expense report).

As I said, theirs is a peaceful and tolerant existence, but, alas, like all societal utopias, there is a price to pay. As I found near the end of our interview, a crack-eater without crack is like a ship without its rudder. More on this in my forthcoming dispatch. Until then.