despite the storm flagellating across the the city's spiny curves, the mission district sparkles below me. i am at tari's apartment on buena vista hill, which overlooks a lot of the city. to my left i can see the gilded dome of city hall. dead center is pac bell park, with oakland off in the distance. the mission district sprawls out across most of the view, and to the far right i can see hunter's point and the bayview.
on a good night, which tonight is not, i can see the landing lights of six to eight planes lined up as they make their final approach to SFO. air traffic controllers call it the "string of pearls."
i've been pretty busy lately; i do have quite a few things to write about, but tonight my sentences are coming out clunky and my thoughts are rambling. maybe i just don't have the will to complain about what troubles me or the spirit to celebrate what keeps me from complaining.
the other night, i met some friends for dinner in north beach. i can promise you, the food was nothing to write about, but something funny happened on the cab ride over. i am sorry if you heard this story already, but a fella's got to have something to talk about.
traffic on this friday night was typically hectic, and my cab driver was especially un-shy about his feelings on the matter. he hangs a hard right onto broadway from franklin, and we are moving, until the shiny black mercedes in front of us absent-mindedly takes up both lanes, impeding our progress.
"this guy, he can't make up his mind," i say.
"it's like this every friday night, they don't drive all week, and then they don't know what they are doing," he says, raising his voice over the crackling CB that is humming with a dispatcher's dull voice, sighing pick up requests that seemingly fall on deaf ears.
the light at the upcoming intersection melts from yellow to red, and the mercedes takes to the right lane. we pull up to the black car, which has loud caribbean music pouring out of it. i am not impressed. as my cab waits at the light, my face is exactly a foot away from the driver of the mercedes. i take the opportunity to mean-mug the richie, just to let him know what i think of his careless driving.
the driver leans over the mahongonied interior and kisses the attractive lady in the passenger seat. at some point, he feels the burning heat of my pooh face, and looks up at me. well shit. it's
benjamin bratt. and the purty lady is
talisa soto. we make eye contact for less than a second. just as my hate-face drops into recognition, the light turns and the handsome actor hangs a quick right onto polk street.
