A real dark Friday--the Friday before Christmas. Dead streets. You can find a parking spot on California Street near the Financial District. (Just don't forget to pay the meter) Upper Market is clear as a bell. The Tenderloin seems unusually quiet not that it would be loud but just odd to me.
The media mucks have left for the weekend --the 3rd-tier underlings are noshing on bagels before the first 4 PM newscast.
Anyone who's anyone has already split for home or is thinking about a few highballs at Perry's. And it won't end there. Geno & Carlo are in the front-view mirror. Speaking of North Beach, the old neighborhood looks perfectly drool for an overcast Friday. There's extra pigeons in Washington Square just to piss off Herb Caen, who is, I'm certain, watching down from heaven sipping some decent vodka. Fat Tony is already at the bar trying to win his sixth straight liar's dice game. Too good for me. Outta here.
I would wander over to the Old Ship, but it's time to head across the bay and contemplate a quiet evening. That sounds OK. Noise wouldn't be the operative theme this day. It feels like something dark and stormy is coming.
Time to retreat.