Read the column here.
This week’s column for the S.F. Examiner is about taking two tourists to see the Golden Gate Bridge and not being able to find it…
“Welcome to summer in San Francisco,” I tell the two girls from Long Island in the backseat of my cab as we roll across the Golden Gate Bridge, shrouded in a thick blanket of fog. “I swear, there’s a bridge in here somewhere.”
Twenty minutes earlier, when I picked them up on Market Street across from the Hyatt Regency, the sun was shining. It was 6:45 p.m., and I was feverishly trying to make my nut while there were still hands in the air.
Read the rest here.
Photo by Jan Pöschko. Available under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial license.
This week’s column for the S.F. Examiner is about driving a drunk leprechaun to a strip club… Well, sort of.
It’s only 10 p.m., but when the guy wearing a green suit covered in four leaf clovers with a matching bowtie stumbles into the passenger seat of my cab and exhales a miasma of booze directly into my face, it suddenly feels like 2 a.m.
“Uhm, where to?” I ask.
“Just head that way,” he mumbles, pointing down the street.
I hit the meter and drive.