San Francisco

I walked down the hill to the bodega on the corner of Haight and Market as the rice was cooking. I grabbed a bag of Pringles and a pack of Marlboros.  The cashier and a heavyset man was in the back of the store, gesturing at the surveillance camera.  When

Dusk consists of fireflies and reedy ponds and lazy grass freckled with dandelions and forget-me-nots and ladybugs.  The jazz hour is when men in suits unbutton their shirts and throw off their ties...

Tonight the fog came as it always does, to the south, through the valleys between Twin Peaks and Potrero Hill.  Planes descended and ascended from SFO like Lite Brite and I wondered how long I can keep from counting down the days. I emptied the dishwasher.  Normally she wipes the

Sunny weather helps. There are stories out there where amputees still feel and believe that they have their limbs - the sensation is still there. Then there are those stories I heard when I was a kid, about supernatural meetings with angels and how those events stay with you forever.  I

But head out far west, where California Street ends, and you’ll find a spot that Murakami would enjoy.

There are better places in San Jose, but if you want to stay in SF, this is the place to go.  Just steer clear of the crackheads in the Tenderloin.