I love this city from its foggy head to its heroin-beneedled toes. However, as with other entities I wholly adore (the farting Fitzhardinges, Bebe the bitey cat) I am forced from time to time to acknowledge its slight imperfections.

I just spent forty minutes driving around 16th and Mission looking for parking. A spot finally opened up on Julian Street, and I was halfway through a 3-point turn when a young women in an aged Corolla ducked past me and took the spot. I swore, she swore more, I swore back with interest, and added a vehement gesture.

She got out of the car, slammed the door behind her and came swinging at me with (I swear this is God’s own honest truth) her disabled parking placard.

As Quinn remarks: “BLOG ME, is what that placard really said.”

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