Entertainment

Thursday High noon: I’m rolling Citizen’s Cab 1015 west up Market, approaching San Francisco’s Westfield Mall – flush at this hour with international tourists and suburbanites of means. Hey. What is that?…


As presented to you passengers on my last report, it’s a new year for your driver, with a new taxi. (Sorta.)


It’s a new year. And Citizen’s Cab #26 is no more. Her medallion holder jumped ship over to DeSoto. And the mechanics magically transformed Citizen’s Cab #26, my trusty ‘ol Prius, into Citizen’s Cab #1015.


Twas the Monday before Christmas, not just any given morn, with Citizen’s Cab 26 cruising a San Francisco left forlorn.


You see, since Jesus retired, Tony’s been pulling double-duty in also writing the schedule. And every year around this time, there’s been a dance I’ve had to do with management.


Thursday Rain, fog and drizzle fill the predawn San Francisco streets… and the mind of one driver rolling Citizen’s Cab #26. I’ve been empty for an hour and a half now, as…


The air is chilly on this early, quiet San Francisco morn. The seasonal cold wet blast which creeps annually down from the north has officially arrived.


A San Francisco cabbie has to make the decision whether to get up butt ass early to gamble on some prodigal son heading to the airport trying to make it home to L.A. in time for the festivities, or sleep in.


Detour Passengers, I’m down with the flu, folks. And there’s been a cold rain and grey clouds hovering over San Francisco in recent days – both figuratively and literally. So, your driver…


Eh, if I’m gonna be up, I might as well work. Despite its 4:15 medallion, I suspect my beautiful Prius, Citizen’s Cab #26, will be at the lot waiting idle and lonely for its driver. Me.


Thursday Noon: I’m rolling west up Market, empty, in Citizen’s Cab #26, when, “DING!” My iPhone chimes with an IM… Hey! It’s Christian! Note: Best friend, Spermula band mate, and fellow (albeit,…


Some have wondered what led a man like me into life as a hack. Well, here’s something I wrote years ago from the Hell of a cubicle, before turning towards life on the streets.


It’s 3:15am, on any given weekday. I’m laid out on the couch in my living room after one too many beers last night. (If one could say it is even “today.”)


Stranger Things is a retro-futuristic Netflix series that combines elements of conspiracy culture, the esoteric and deep state PSYOP cases. The surface story is about a missing boy named Will Byers that disappears without a trace.


It’s Saturday, my day off from ‘ol Citizen’s Cab. And the spawn are off busy with their mom and Uncle – who’s visiting from Texas. So, alone, I biked over to the annual Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival set so sublime amidst San Francisco’s crown jewel, Golden Gate Park.



It’s an old black gentleman, with clean, pressed blue jeans, a pressed khaki jacket, and a stiff, clean Army Vet baseball cap. He’s waving his cane slow and casual, as standing beside a pressed reusable plastic bag, and a nice tan leather shoulder bag.