I live in a third floor walk-up closet, a veritable cracker box of eighth inch press board walls and no heat to speak of, remembering a recent February morning where the thermostat read 48 degrees. Rent is astronomical. Gas is more expensive than booze and I won’t explain whats more important, a car is not an option what with no garage and no parking and being a bit short on scratch because of the cracker box and 8.5% sales tax and every grocery store thinks they’re Whole Foods (or whole paycheck, whichever comes first). So I’ll ride the bus for a dollar and a half, camera in pocket, f/5.6 at a 60th, always sitting in the back with the hobos and hoodlums and never get anywhere on time.

Late in the day, having hopped the bus with hobos and hoodlums down South of Market I stopped at the cafe for the customary small coffee in largish cup, sitting outside on a warm San Francisco March afternoon watching all the restless afternoon professionals (yuppies) scurry about. All the while entertained by the man on the street with the electric piano churning out Beethoven note for note with a little Maple Leaf Rag thrown in for color and some Leon Russell for style, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not terribly bothered by the cracker box or 8.5% sales tax as long as the guy on the corner keeps on playing the piano.