The weather has been indecisive since the day I arrived and today is no different. Heavy oversaturated thunderheads lean on the craggy edges of El Mordor: Mexico City. I’m not sure if it’s lightning I see in the corner of my eye, or my espantos arriving uncharacteristically early. Still, no

Nite Owl My head is pounding. I’d gone straight from work, to the gym, to yet another hijacked political meeting and finally a rather awkward, albeit surrealistically humorous event entitled San Francisco Political Squares. It was cute, well constructed and everyone was trying their damndest to channel Paul Lynde (or

The San Bruno Owl winds its way through the mists South of Market as we head towards Van Ness. There aren’t many people on the northbound motor coach at this hour, with the exception of a few stragglers and a nattily dressed older woman who is harping on a teenager

We’ve had a lot of these nights as of late, where warm days unfold into breezy, not-quite cold nights, the familiar summertime fog scattering to the burning plains in the east. My button-down is wet down my back and under my arms with the usual accompanying fragrance as I hustle

It’s been a fairly cold summer inside and out this year, but in  the past weeks things have warmed up slightly, albeit encased in drizzle.  I’m riding the 38-Geary out of the Tenderloin and away from Bus Station John’s frisky disc-y, the Tubesteak Connection where a gaggle of fuzzy men