I don’t know if it’s something I did in a past life or my current one – though safe to assume the latter – but I seem to be cursed with these drunken and disoriented millennials. As much as I try to avoid them and the areas where they congregate, somehow they keep getting in my cab.

I had two non-payers during Halloween. Including one to South City. I pulled up to this kid’s house, $32.65 on the meter, and he told me, “I have no money. Sorry. I don’t even have keys to get inside.”

Anyway, this week’s column for the S.F. Examiner is about a horror ride with a drunken millennial: 

It’s almost last call on a quiet Friday night. There’s not much going on. Halloween was the previous weekend, and with the election on Tuesday, only the diehards are out partying …

On the corner of 16th and Sanchez, a young couple flags me. The girl gets in alone. Her eyes are glazed and she’s holding a plastic bag. 

An ominous sensation rises from my gut. 

Read the rest here.