The sun's not yellow, it's chicken

On the way back from Fort Mason tonight, I took a right turn onto McCoppin for no particular reason. Unless curiosity is particular. I just wondered where it went.

Well, it goes to Valencia via the longest traffic light in the universe—tied with the four-way light at 51st and Telegraph in Oakland—and it's the secret taxi gateway to the Mission.

There were three cabs in front of me and two behind me, like aggressive, identical chaperones, all the way along Valencia from Duboce to 22nd. I could have turned off in a few places, but I didn't. I was too pleased picturing little green Gibson running with the kings of urban driving. Does he secretly want a herd? Or, more likely, to to be the black sheep in a herd. Vroooom.

Golf psychology aside, it was cinematic, or at least I imagined it was.

I realize I've been saying that a lot recently. I'm not sure if it's because my life is actually getting more dramatic or just because my adjective supply is running out. Which might be a hazard in my line of work, so please cross your fingers for the drama.