So long and thanks for all the fish...

Three hundred seventy two days ago, a helicopter was called because there was too much traffic on the freeway for the ambulance. Anxious and desperately hopeful for a trip that couldn't change fate, a tire slipped on a painted crosswalk surface and a body flew headfirst into the concrete. Cracking, the helmet dissappated as much of the impact it could, letting the neck deal with the rest. Vertebrae compressed, cracked, and one shattered into three separate pieces.

Let her know I can't make it.

Thirsty. Apple juice became vomit. A son found and squeezed his father's hand only because he knew his mother is the stronger one.

Three hundred seventy two days have been spent trying to figure out where the pieces go and if they fit anymore. They don't. Things haven't made much sense most of the time and often time was spent trying to decide who to be strong for. By this time next month, I will be on the other side of the world, alone. NeoKai is not new anymore.

I'm running away.

The past three hundred seventy two days have had one common, pervasively persistent theme:

We make mistakes. Things happen that we never forsaw, that we never planned, that we never intended. These mistakes come with consequences we can never run away from, consequences we can never leave behind. They are part of an official record we cannot expunge. 

They stay with us and the most poignant moments are the tears we never shed, and the cries inside when we think no one is looking. We resent them, only because we resent ourselves, and tomorrow, we grit our teeth, smile, and pretend that life goes on.

Our hands are covered with blood.

We hurt others. We don't forgive. We don't forget. We don't get better. We don't move on. We don't survive. We suffer and it is all that we will know for the rest of our lives. We started dying a long time ago and we grew up only to help kill others. We cry when we're drunk, when we're high, when we're asleep.

It isn't that we don't have a good time or good times. We do. It isn't that life isn't worth living. It is. Even if it isn't, you just do because that's the point. But, damn, we really beat ourselves up in the process.

I came to San Francisco. I'm not sure if somewhere I thought I'd get some closure. I'm not sure if I got any or if it was to be found in the first place. I had a good time, great even. But the shit keeps happening, it'll never stop, and the casualties keep coming. The theme is there, we make mistakes, we hurt others, we don't forget. A young man asked a young woman a question. You too, huh? Yeah, me too. How did we all become so utterly fucked up, and fucked up enough to be so good at hiding it? Too smart to be smart.

I'm leaving San Francisco. Au revoir, Los Angeles. Sayonara, America.

Life goes on but you'll never forget me. I'm not special. But you'll understand...one day.

This is me, signing off. Goodbye.

The House

The House is nestled into the North Beach/Chinatown border, on the North Beach side. I've always liked fusion foods, with their complex tastes reminiscent of that which is familar and that which is not. While the black tea part of the Lichee Black Ice Tea was of satisfying quality, it wasn't anything particularly special overall and hardly worth the two dollar price. The Chipotle Pulled Pork Loin Sandwich, however, was positively delicious coupled with the red and green leafed side salad topped with sesame seeds and a soy based light dressing. Pickled, but not quite kimchi and not quite cole slaw, vegetables sit with the tender pork pieces between the slices of bread. No matter how you choose to eat the sandwich, whether with your hands as you would with a normal sandiwch or with a knife and fork, you're going to get some of the chipotle bbq sauce on your lips so keep the napkin handy.

Oops, the restaurant is empty and I'm left. Time for me to go too.

Looking Down Pacific

For a city renown to be foggy, there's yet to be any fog whatsoever, especially in winter. Quite the contrary, the visibility is remarkably clear. Just yesterday as I was driving down the 580 west near Castro Valley, at least a good ten miles away, I could easily see the
San Francisco skyline in all its glory. That's practically unheard of in Los Angeles.

I've been here before a few times

Walking downhill on Pacific, west and uphill of Chinatown, the surrounding buildings beautifully framed the vastly underrated and lesser known Bay Bridge while the Transamerica building poked itself into magnificent view on the right. A familiar scent, the scent of soy milk. This is Chinatown after all. Familiar sights as I walk by, my white tennis shoes upon the concrete pavement sidestepping questionable spills and the path of strangers traversing the same physical path of the moment. Gold Mountain, a dim sum restaurant I've always loved and went out of my way to patronize during my stint in San Francisco. I've brought a few really special people here. I'm reminded of, but do not see, the parking garage with the fortune cookie messages painted onto each space.

And I'm quite aware we're dying

Yoogoo Gelato, remembered only for its substandard boba when I was once drunk and thirsty. New Sun Hong Kong Restaurant, forever associated with substandard fare whether here or in Berkeley. The street-side supermarkets selling produce that is likely to be fresh but invariably questionably presented.

And your hands, they shake with goodbyes

Asleep in the cool biting air beneath a brilliant sun on a sidewalk huddled into the corner where a building meets the groud is a homeless black man. A skateboard is resting beneath where his knees and lower legs would have been had he still had them. People walk by, and maybe a few like myself will pass him an embarassed glanced. For a moment, these people will feel a bit of sympathy, a bit of pity, and then life will continue.

And I'll take you back, if you'll have me

It always does, if you let it. Choice.

So here I am, I'm trying
So here I am, are you ready
And I'll miss your laugh, your smile

San Francisco and I Are NOT Friends...

511.org is an extremely impressive tool to figure out your way around the Bay Area. Enter two addresses, set some variables, and voila, you have your route planned out quite precisely for you, including departure times, arrival times, and prices. Between where I'm staying and The Cosomopolitan over down by Spear St. near the Embarcadero was just a short ride on the #12 Muni for only $1.50. The ride back would be the same, for a total of $3.00. It would be a nice lunch with two wonderful ladies and an open afternoon of possibilities.

Or not.

Deciding that I would use the afternoon to pay a visit to a local Safeway so as to purchase the ingredients needed to prepare a nice meal for my hostess(es), I decided I would borrow her car, risk not finding a parking spot when I return, and drive on down for lunch. There would be ample meter parking over by the Embarcadero and it would be ever so convienent to have a car to carry the groceries.

Oh, little did I know.

Getting to The Cosmopolitan was a simple affair. I found a place to park along the street and was very careful to read the signs posted on the meters to make sure I would be able to park there. Every meter and curb was either painted red or yellow and there were a plethora of signage and instructions listed on each pole. Clearly, between 7AM and 11AM, the spots were reserved for commercial loading and unloading. Underneath that sign was a sign that listed the hours of General Parking. There were various cars around me, most of which were clearly not commercial trucks or vans in nature and despite my dismay that each quarter would only gain me five minutes with a thirty minute maximum, I parked my humble self there, right in front of the restaurant.

A funny thing happened next.

I waited approximately 20 minutes outside in the rain for the two fine ladies to show up for our 12:00 noon reservation. Up until 10 minutes, you give them the benefit of the doubt that they're simply running late. After all, they are Asian and Asians simply aren't bound by the conventional rules of time. Perhaps they've changed their look after all this time and I just didn't recognize them, so I resolved to look closer at each person passing by.

Between 10-20 minutes late, you start thinking that maybe you got stood up. At 25 minutes, you KNOW you've been stood up and start feeling really terrible about it...especially considering you weren't stood up by a single girl you had asked out on a date but by two girls who are just your friends. Seriously, who gets stood up by their friends?

I delved back into my car to see if I could jack into any unsecured wireless routers in the vicinity and see if these so-called friends of mine were online so I could yell at them. Alas, I could not get on the internet. By now, it was 12:25pm and I decided I would let the restaurant know that we won't be making my reservation after all. That way, OpenTable won't yell at me for not showing up.

Red-faced and embarassed, I walk up to the nice lady behind the reception counter and apologize that we won't be able to make our reservation today. Surprise, two ladies are already seated and waiting for me. Bewildered, I asked my friends when they arrived only to deduce that perhaps I had indeed missed them while I was sitting in my car hunched over my laptop. I swear, however, that I was still paying attention to the crosswalk.

The food was delicious and the company amiable. Ceasar Salad (with a fancier name), Steak Salad (also with a fancier name), and a desert of Chocolate, Maple, and Walnut ice cream. The steak salad was particularly notable and unlike certain places where they toss you a few strips of steak, this was clearly a steak too big for its mixed greens bed. As one of my guests pardoned herself to use the restroom yet again, I realized that I long overdue to deposit some additional coins into the meter. I took the six remaining quarters off the table where my guests had donated earlier for the previous sacrifice to keep the meter maid gods satiated, I walked outside to the car...

...that was no longer there.

Within it was my laptop and my iPod Nano.

Yeah.

Press 1 for English.

Next thing I knew, I was on hold with the impound and hiking from the restaurant by Embarcadero all the way over to 450 7th St (cross-street Bryant)

Please ask about our premium tow-back service.

That's fantastic. Not only do they tow your car away, which invariably means a smothering impound and storage fee, but they're nice enough to offer to tow your car BACK to you for extra money. If that isn't "premium" service, I don't know what is.

All our service representatives are currently assisting other customers. Please wait on the line for our next available representative. Our revised estimate for your wait time is...15 minutes.

First St. FanTAStic.

SOMA, or South of Market St. is an interesting place. As old as San Francisco is, there's this entire southern section teeming with new condominium developments hoping to capitalize on some urban high life buttressed by a half-developed Pacific Bell Park, Yerba Buena Gardens, and of course, the Sony Metreon.

Our revised estimate for your wait time is...15 minutes.

A kid rolls by me on one of those oh-so-passe Razor scooters.

Our revised estimate for your wait time is...15 minutes.

Nevermind, its actually uh...a really short man.

Our revised estimate for your wait time is...15 minutes.

2nd St. Everything else along this round is a mish-mash of miscellany that you can't quite seem to find particularly remarkable. There were a lot of automotive service businesses with a few decidedly San Francisco cafes sprinked through them of course.

Our revised estimate for your wait time is...12 minutes.

A few blocks later...

Our revised estimate for your wait time is...10 minutes.

One thing I have to appreciate is the utter absence of crosswalk buttons, the ones you press to tell the signal system that a human being without a car is waiting at a corner and would like to cross.   

Our revised estimate for your wait time is...10 minutes.

See, in Los Angeles, these exist on every corner because quite frankly, sidewalks have no real practical purpose. They do look pretty as you drive down the street though. With so many pedestrians, half of which look normal and the other half being some strange mix of homeless and pseudo-homeless individuals, the streets automatically throw up that happy white lighted walking stick figure.

Our revised estimate for your wait time is...7 minutes.

Let's just say it wasn't until I rounded the 7th St. corner that someone picked up and informed me that the car was indeed towed and not stolen (which was decidedly the worse of two evils considering my laptop and iPod were inside).

26 minutes of metered parking. $1.30
30 minutes of metered parking. $1.50
SF Dine Around Town Prix Fixe Lunch. $21.95
Tax and Tip. $5.05
Impound and tow fee. $184.75
Parking ticket for yellow curb. $60.00

Total? $274.55

Most expensive lunch...ever. I'm going to go cry now.

There's Nothing Around the Corner in Suburbia

Gray skies should've given it away. "It's raining."

Three stories down, and many more stories untold, unheard, forgotten. Wood. It must be the smell of wood, aged over the decades, in an old building with stairs and posted paper signs by a building manager too sensitive to the noise of people scaling the floors. "He's got a stick up his ass. He's gay."

That's quite the literal stick then.

Cars pass by, a fire truck or two, their tires cutting and splashing through the water that films the black streets. Streams intersect on their path laden by gravity before our path. The sidewalk dips into the crosswalk and a small river is hopped. Be careful, don't get wet.

One block up, one block down, we find ourselves coming up on Sushi Rapture. It's small, on the corner, and the sushi chef behind the counter is wearing a brown Puma hoodie. The empty counter will find two patrons soon as we find our table by the door and by the window. The menus are nice and the ambiance is cozy despite the rock tile motif. The tea is hot and the food a bit slow in coming.

So this is what its like to live in "the city," with a local eatery closer and quainter than a fast food joint. We wonder who owns the place, as one of the servers is clearly not Japanese and all signs point to the dark Asian lady attending to a customer at the sushi bar, finger adorned with what is allegedly a ring adorned with three huge, sparkling diamonds. Oh, they do take-out, as I watch the Non-Asian Man carry two bags of food out the door, into the rain, and into the Infiniti FX-35 SUV parked in the driveway.

They must be married. Makes sense.

One umbrella. A small one. Rain flies into the side of my head and gives pattern to my jacket. San Francisco, winter, night.