Eighth circle, sort of.

I mean, if you're going to get dramatic about it. And by you, I mean me.

Every time I fly Alaska Airlines, I fool myself into thinking: This time, it won't be delayed. Even though every single flight (truly) I've ever been stupid enough to purchase from them has been anywhere from one to three hours late taking off, they're the primary carrier between Oakland and Seattle, and my big brother lives up north, so . . . this would be an awesome time to rant about monopolies.

But I just paid $10 for this scant 25 minutes of Wi-Fi time—no, really, because I've been sitting in this sweaty chair for an hour and a half and that's just how bored I am—and it'd be a crying shame if I didn't entertain you somehow. Whining is not the way.

So here's a story about a different monopoly, and if you wanted to draw some kind of parallel, who would I be to stop you?

In the 15ish-minute walk from the Montgomery BART stop up Sansome to my new office, I pass half a dozen Starbucks and about eight other places to get coffee. If I split the walk between Sansome and Battery, I can totally double that number. Even the places that aren't Starbucks pretty much feel like Starbucks, except they don't carry the new McCartney album with a no-way-I'm-65-now-what-about-all-the-LSD title that references computers. You know, so the kids can relate.

I also pass the city's central Immigration Services office, which always has a long line out the door of nervous-looking people holding sheaves of documents. Why do they make everyone line up on the sidewalk? Today I thought about photographing the scene, the juxtaposition of American greed and the quantities of good people trying to become part of it.

But if I were uncertain about my immigration status, I probably wouldn't want some curious local chick taking my picture.

Ah, they're calling my flight. Alaska, you're semi-forgiven. Just get me up there, let me sleep, don't drop into the sea, and we're back in business.