When all else fails, there’s always the SFO casino …
On most nights, deadheading to the airport is a gamble. But with taxis sandbagging every hotel, bar, strip joint and DJ club in The City, a Hail Mary seems like the only option.
On my way to the freeway, I stop by Mythic Pizza for a couple slices. Not much is happening on Haight Street. The only customers inside the restaurant are two young ladies sitting at a table having a very loud, profanity-laden conversation about their personal lives.
When my slices are ready, I look for the parmesan, but the container isn’t with the other condiments — it’s on the table where the young ladies are sitting.
I ask if they’re done with the cheese.
“Do your thing,” one says snidely.
Uh, OK. I carry it back to the counter and sprinkle the cheese liberally over my pepperoni slices.
As I’m heading out the door, the girls yell at me:
“Whoa, dude! Where’s our parmesan?”
“What?” I laugh, as if they’re fucking with me.
Their serious faces imply otherwise …
Read the rest here.
[photo by Christian Lewis]