»In which I complain about parking

In a city (San Francisco) where parking problems abound — where we find abusrdly low meter revenue, yet high meter occupancy; where 1 in 10 citizens have a handicapped placard; and where meter maids receive physical dressings-down, I am frustrated that the Department of Parking and Whatever only has three PCOs (the Parking Control Officers assigned to tow detail) working on Sundays, a delay of about three hours between call and action on Friday, and precisely zero PCOs working the graveyard shift. To be precise, the graveyard shift (0200 to 0600) routes calls to the local constabulary, who take the report of a blocked sidwalk, obstructed fire hydrant, car on kerb, car blocking a driveway, et c., and promptly ignore it. A DPT dispatcher told me, "Oh, the PCOs don't start until six, and they probably won't get to the first call until maybe seven." Oh, yes, San Francisco, and especially all those people who come to this neighbourhood at weekends to party, you park like an asshole. dot com.

The bestest times to block a garage, park in someone else's driveway, double-park, roll up onto a sidewalk access ramp, or otherwise get in the way of pedestrians are Friday nights, Sunday all day, or any day after two o'clock. The nicely-dressed well-spoken man eating at Out the Door a few weeks ago suggested acts of retaliation, but none satisfies me as much as the tow. The Tow! To the Auto Return!

Lest you think that all I do is belly-ache, I will very happily point out that a cheerful, bearded man named Tory gave me an orange that he had grown yesterday, and it was a delicious orange. He sells fruit at the Farmers' Market at the San Francisco Ferry Building.