dirty, dirty, dirty san francisco

One of the things I like about living in San Francisco is all the fun graffiti that's everywhere in the city. Some of it is obnoxious, some of it is beautiful, and some of it just makes me laugh. It's another reason why I seldom don't have my camera with me (when it's not broken).

For example, the above photo. I was riding on the metro when the doors opened, and I saw that. I actually stepped out of the train and took the next one just so I could get that photo. It was accompanied by this:

It was worth the wait, I think. John Travolta as a satanic El Fucko. I love it.

Then, there was this one in a Port-O-Shitter, I think it was on 18th Street or something...I had to pee, it was unlocked, and when I opened the door, I saw this:

Tee hee hee! I'm glad I had my camera that day.

Another one from the MUNI metro, I think this was at Church Street station:

Poor Dr. Phil.

I can't remember where this one was, the Mission I think, but it struck terror into my heart:

If it was on a t-shirt, I'd totally wear it.

Next are some photos of some seats on the 19-Polk. Gotta love the 19...you never know what's going to happen on that particular line.

And of course, this being San Francisco someone had to make a political statement about Osama bin Laden's genitalia on the next seat:

I guess someone just likes drawing dicks on the 19's seats.

This one is at the top of Russian Hill:

I kinda like it.

It's a gorgeous day here...my friend Thomas just stopped by on his new Honda scooter and asked me to meet him later at the Beer Bust at the Eagle.

I think I'm gonna go. :-)



i'm back.

untitled, 2005 -- by chad

Tell you what...hiking on huge piles of granite boulders underneath a giant snowmelt waterfall is amazing. However, for this guy who is used to living at sea level...it can be quite taxing at 6000 feet.


I. Am. Tired. As. Hell.

I took some really good shots up in Yosemite...I'll post 'em when Chris A. sends them to me (they're on his camera).

Also...it's kinda nice to be back in the city.

untitled, 2005 -- by chad



I need to get out of San Francisco again, to decompress, do some writing, take some photos, and relax.

In about a half hour, Chris A., our friend Jon and his new boyfriend, and yours truly are hopping in the Jag and driving to Yosemite. Chris A.'s boyfriend waa supposed to go as well, but decided not to go at the last minute. Seems there's room for me now, so I'm going.

It seems that everywhere I look, I see walls and windows. The horizon is never more than a few blocks away at most, and it's usually less than 100 feet away. Sometimes, that can get a bit claustrophobic.

I need to get away from all these cars and buildings...and relax for a few days in Yosemite. I've never been there, but I'm looking forward to it.

It'll be nice to get into some open space for a change...don't get me wrong, I love urban environments, but sometimes you need a little sunshine and fresh air.

Instead of urban canyons, I'll be looking at El Capitan, and maybe some bears, who knows?

Chris A. asked me to do some of the driving. His car has so many buttons...in that photo I'm trying to figure out how to release the parking brake without popping the hood...Jaguars are so quirky like that.

But tell you what, they're pretty damn stylie.

See you all on Thursday.




One lazy Saturday afternoon not too long ago, I was knocking back a few brewskis at The Powerhouse, a decidedly-cruisy, somewhat dirty, very-leathery bar in the SoMa district here in San Francisco. I ran into an old buddy of mine, Timmy, who happens to work for Friendster. I hadn't seen him in months, and we caught up and took advantage of the $1.25 drafts and free popcorn.

Hey, cheap beer and free popcorn in a sleazy bar in a sketchy part of town are Good Things. More on my conversation with Timmy in a bit.

For those of you who remember Friendster in its original incarnation, it was actually quite a hopping place, frequented by lots of gay men, freaks, bohemians, and other creative individuals. "Fakesters" popped up left and right, and made the website quite entertaining. If you who don't know what a Fakester is, it's a fake friendster profile of a celebrity, fictitious person, cartoon character, or even an inanimate object that happens to have a Friendster profile. In fact, on my friendster profile I count among my friendsters Donatella Versace, the Rehab party thrown by my friends Marcia, Ryan, and Darwin, and of course Violet Newstead, Doralee Rhodes, and Judy Bernley from the movie Nine to Five (and there's even a profile for the office snitch, Roz Keith). Now, before anyone says anything, Nine to Five is probably my favorite movie of all time and I can almost recite it line for line as I'm watching it.

Yeah, I know. I'm a nerd, but at least I can tell the difference between Rid-O-Rat and Skinny-N-Sweet (they look almost identical, but Rid-O-Rat has a little skull and crossbones on the label...duh).

Now, I was guilty of creating a few fakesters myself. I created one for former KNTV-11 and KGO-7 anchor Terilyn Joe, notoriously known for her Big Huge Hair and Way Too Much Makeup (she looked like a drag queen) and her produce defenestration stunt (click that link...you won't believe it really happened). I also created a fakester for Mr. Chau, a local Chinese fast-food chain. If you who live in the Bay Area, you may have seen the Mr. Chau late-night commercials with a cartoon Chinese guy who bounces around and says "I'm all ovah da place!" Mr. Chau deserved a fakester as well, I thought.

Sadly, both Terilyn and Mr. Chau are in fakester heaven...they were deleted in the summer of 2003.

However, my most successful fakester, deleted because it had over 250 friends, was for the N-Judah, a popular, heavily-utilzed subway/streetcar line that runs from the CalTrain station, past SBC Park, through downtown, winding through Cole Valley and the Inner and Outer Sunsets, eventually stopping at the Pacific Ocean. I had been wanting to make a fakester for it, and I noticed a few New York subway lines had fakesters, so I created it.

It was an instant smash.

Every day, I had dozens of people wanting to be the N-Judah's friend, and of course, I accepted every single one (well, I didn't accept a particularly vicious and nasty anti-Gavin Newsom fakester friendster request, but that's about it). The N-Judah was friends with lots of other fakesters as well...the Transamerica Pyramid, various San Francisco neighborhoods like Chinatown, the Sunset, the Mission, and the Haight, Buena Vista Park, San Francisco's fog, a taco truck, BART, CalTrain, the F-Market historic streetcar line, the Golden Gate Bridge, The Endup, a houseboat, and Professor Poopypants.

People started writing beautiful testimonials (52 in all) for the N-Judah, all revealing very personal things about what happened on that train. Apparently, a lot of people have emotional ties to that line, and reading all the testimonials as I approved them was absolutely fascinating.

However, its sheer popularity caught the evil eye of Friendster's founder, Jonathan Abrams, who created Friendster as a way to meet girls. Fakesters were NOT a part of his plan, and he ordered ALL fakesters killed, N-Judah included. Unfortunately, it proved to be a horrible mistake, and incredibly short-sighted.

Okay, back to the point of this whole post.

I was sitting there in The Powerhouse talking with Timmy, and I asked him what happened to all those fakesters. He told me they all still existed in archive form on the servers, sans photos. I told him about the N-Judah's profile, and he laughed.

"Sounds funny, I should restore it," he said. Timmy is one of Friendster's tech guys.

"You can do that?" I asked.

"Easy. The photos will be gone, but everything else will be intact."

"Dude." I couldn't believe it. "You'll do that?"

"Yeah, tomorrow when I go to work."

Timmy made good on his promise.

I present to everyone...the now-resurrected N-Judah fakester. All my really cool N-Judah photos I took in the summer of 2003 are gone, and I can't access them because they're on a broken laptop that no longer recognizes its own operating system. However, I googled a bit and found some suitable ones.

If for some reason you can't load that fakester, here's what it says:


joined Jul 2003 | last login Wednesday, August 13, 2003

Gender: Male

Interested in Meeting People for: Relationship Men and Women, Dating Men and Women, Friends, Activity Partners

Status: Single

Age: 33

Location: San Francisco, CA

Zodiac Sign: Capricorn

Hometown: Built in Pistoia, Italy

Occupation: streetcar/subway line

Hobbies and Interests: Going from 4th & King out to Ocean Beach and back over and over and over again, spanking, long rides out to the beach, cigarettes, a good shiraz

Favorite Books: Anything by Judy Blume...betcha you didn't know I could read huh?

Favorite Music: My buddy C-Train from NYC hooked me up with this killer band called the Screeching Wheels, and I love that little ding-ding or bong-bong sound they play when I come pulling into the underground stations.

About Me: I am a nice, friendly Breda Costruzioni Ferroviarie train
full of grumpy people, especially in the morning. I really don't care if you drink coffee on me but don't sit on that little wall that separates the seats from the rear doors...tell you what, anyone who sits on those side-facing seats has to look at your jiggling ass 2 inches from their face and that just isn't very nice. Grab a pole already.

Who I Want to Meet: I want to meet that woman who announces me when I come pulling in the metro stations..."Bong Bong...Approaching...Inbound Train...Two Car...Mission Bay...followed by...One car...Embarcadero...in two...minutes..." My god, she is sexy. If I had a weenie it'd be hard. If you want to be my friendster, my full name is N-Judah Muni. Write a testimonial...I'm a fucking train and I don't get a lot of excitement unless some homeless guy pees on someone's leg.

Here are some of my favorite N-Judah testimonials, with links to the Friendster profiles of the San Franciscans who composed them:

Dave: I grew up next to the N-Judah when I lived on 47th Ave. I remember how my sister and I used to take you to go to gymnastics classes since my mom was always too busy to take us. Above all, you only cost us all of 25 cents I believe. Good times... except for the rumbling we had to endure at night.

Stereo: N-Judah. I call it the ZEN Judah because it never arrives until I meditate my mind clear of all conscious thought.

Feodor: Ah, N-Judah, my old friend, it's been so long. You were always there when I needed you. Well, perhaps not at the precise moment I needed you, but give or take ten, twenty, thirty minutes or so... ...I can recall one unseasonably warm, summer afternoon when I was returning home from work and the gentle hum of your electric motor lulled me off to a blissfull sleep. Who knew molded, plastic seats could be so comfortable? Granted, I did miss my stop. But then, you probably knew that I needed the rest. And I did have to walk about 15 extra blocks to get back home. But then, you probably knew that I needed the exercise. N-Judah, you are Muni's bright, shining star. Oh, some will say that the J-Church has all the beauty with her sweeping, panoramic views of Dolores Park. And still others will declare that the M- Oceanview can lay claim to a good percentage of the City's hot, young coeds as it rumbles past Stonestown and SF State. Of course everyone knows that the L-Taraval is really just the poor man's N-Judah. And the K-Ingleside? A terror-filled journey into the seemy, underbelly of our fair city. But you, N-Judah, you have all the personality. And you take us to the ballgame! Huzzah!! Kudos to you, N-Judah! Roll on, old friend, roll on.

Tamara: When you roll past my house every few minutes, you're like Magic Fingers for my bed and an instant little earthquake in my apartment. You're a force to be reckoned with!

Rebecca: Oh N Judah. You rumble past my house every day and all night, carrying all the cute boys who just NEVER look up into my bedroom window. Some day, will you carry my love to me?

Derek: You haven't really ridden the N-Judah until you pull the "Jesus Move." This is quite simple. When exiting the tunnel at Church and Duboce, stand on the step closest to the door that will be rising. Extend your arms so they are parallel to the ground, about chest height, and about a 120 deg bend in the elbows. Right before the stairs start to move, stare straight ahead and say with conviction "This is my Jesus Move!" You will then instill awe and wonderment into anyone looking as you magically levitate towards our almighty Father!! J.C. in the house!! Yes!!

Shannon: You made me hella run for you the other day Jude baby. I was in Starbucks and all of a sudden there you were, no warning. I thought I told you to call first! I even waved and showed a little leg, but it was like you didn't even know I existed. I ran to your waiting doors and jumped in, but you made me stand the whole time, what's up with that?? Show a girl a little courtesy dude. But you did get me to the Giants game on time. How do you feel about vinyl Judey? Ya like that - I know you do. Tell me you like it, tell mama you like it.

Kyle: haiku: silver sleek and mean...
rolling down those tracks so fast...
n-judah rail car

Brendan: Thank you, N-Judah, for taking me to my psychiatrist every Thurday. Some day, I will be able to finally find happiness.

Lysley: I first crossed paths with N-Judah back in 2000. I think it was on Irving, corner of 9th? I was on the sidewalk, ready to cross, and N-Judah chugged by...no eye contact was made, at least not on N-Judah's part because I guess N-Judah doesn't really have eyes. Anyhoo, for some reason I couldn't take my eyes off of N-Judah... Oh wait. That's because I was supposed to take N-Judah somewhere, but I thought N-Judah was someone else, the M, I think. Sorry. My mistake.

Rob: Ahh beloved N-Judah, the sonorous clatter of your bell resonates in my mind even when I am in my lifeless suburban breadbox. I hope you'll forgive me for the time I ditched you after the Giants game and eloped with a passing 30-Stockton.

Eileen: All my life spent within miles of his track, and although I’ve watched him service myriad other women, I've never had the pleasure of riding this sexy little demon. Amazing. Maybe I’ll pay the N-Judah a surprise visit… sneak on from behind and ease myself into one of his seats… and maybe I won’t wear any panties… and maybe I’ll catch a frickin disease - *ICK!* On second thought, maybe I’ll wear panties and drive my car instead, cuz that’s what you gotta do way out here in the damn burbs, north of the park. I’m green with envy - what I wouldn’t give to have N-Judah push himself into my neighborhood and slide along my quiet streets...



rebecca hell

That is a picture of my friend Rebecca; I used to work with her at the Stormy Leather factory/corporate offices, located on a particularly grimy stretch of Quesada Avenue in San Francisco's Bayview Industrial Park. She was a lot of fun, actually. In addition to processing invoices, making collection calls, and other administrative financial things, I also assisted her in the design of a lot of the sex toys she used to create. She dreamed of owning her own lingerie line called "Rebecca Hell" along with sex toys and other fun things to wear on your body (or insert into it).

For example, she was designing a slave hood one day. Now, I was already wearing a leather body harness AND a Kings Road collar WHILE processing invoices (I was helping her out on another design as well) and she walked up with the hood.

"Chad, would you mind slipping this on?" she asked, smiling, her head tilted slightly to the left.

"How could I say no?" I said, and pulled the hood over my head. She made a few measurements, and some markings, and suddenly, the phone rang. "MMMFFMMPHFF!" I managed to say, because the mouth was zipped and fastened shut.

"Sorry, babe." Rebecca undid the mouth.

"Stormy Leather, this is Chad," I answered the phone, in a slightly muffled voice. At this time the UPS guy walked in, and I had to sign for a package like that. He was used to us by that time, and he just smiled and shook his head when he saw me.

And so went a normal day at work.

Another time she was designing a ball stretcher, and once again asked me for my assistance. Sighing, I got up from my desk and walked into the bathroom. She followed me in, and helped me put it on. I really didn't care, I figured, I'm gay, she's straight, and we were so not interested in each other's genitalia.

"Ow!" I yelled, as she pulled the straps tight.

"What? What?" she asked, trying not to laugh.

"Guys aren't built like this is designed. My balls are too big for this thing."

"So how should I do it?"

"For one thing, make a bigger chamber for my balls, there's barely enough room in here for a puffy labia."

"I love you, Chad Fox. You're a friggin PORNSTAR!" Rebecca laughed. That was her nickname for me, PornStar. She thought my name sounded pornish, so she made a big sticker that said "PORNSTAR" and stuck it on my mailbox. The name stuck, and everyone there called me that.

Chad Fox Pornstar. Great. Add that to "Chad Fox Sucks Cocks" (how they taunted me in high school...and also Daigle, who repeats that constantly) and you pretty much can see how people continue to make fun of my name even in my adult life. I don't care, actually. I actually like my name.

Rebecca and I used to go hang out and lean against the cinderblock wall of the auto repair garage across the street on our breaks, and smoke cigarettes and talk about boys, sex, and growing up in Cleveland (me, obviously), and Montclair, California (Rebecca). We'd soak up the warm San Francisco sun and watch the pitbulls running loose through the neighborhood, sometimes taking up residence in abandoned cars. We'd eat lunch together out there as well...and just talk about our dreams and aspirations, and how perverted our co-workers were. I was standing next to her on September 11, 2001, and we stood on the sidewalk right there on Quesada Avenue and watched a China Air Lines jumbo jet fly overhead, flanked by two USAF F-16 aircraft. It was absolutely surreal...and a bonding moment between Rebecca and me.

Our lives were changing, forever.

Once, while driving past Montclair Plaza on I-10 in Montclair, I called Rebecca to say "I'm driving past the big huge 'M' on the 10, gurl!"

"Oh my fucking GOD I used to ditch school and hang out in the JC Penney parking lot and smoke!" she laughed.

Another time I called her from an antique train car hitched to the back of Amtrak as we rumbled through West Oakland, where she lived at the time. "Hey, I'm in your neighborhood."

"Where are you?"

"See that train rumbling through?"

"The Amtrak?"


"See that wierd old car hitched to the back of it?"


"See that guy on the very back waving?"

"PORNSTAR! You're a freak! What the fuck are you doing on that train?" Rebecca never knew when I was going to call her.

She also threw really dirty parties...she once invited me to a shindig in Oakland, and handed me a flyer. It said, "Cum to the Pervy Porno Pecker Party!" It was all perverted porn stars, cool Oaklanders, and a few DJ's. Too bad I had plans that night...I should have gone.

Another time she threw an insane party at the Market Street Ramada in San Francisco. I walked in, and a friend of mine who was becoming a girl but hadn't had The Operation yet, threw herself at me and said, "Hey! I'm a whore! Fuck me!"

"You still have a penis."

"You can figure it out!"

Rebecca then walked up to me, placed a shot of tequila in my hand, a beer in the other, and said "Welcome!"

Interestingly, I did sell my old Volkswagen GTI to my tranny friend and taught her how to drive stick shift, but that's a different story altogether. Teaching a tranny who has NEVER driven stickshift in her life how to drive stick on a quiet street in San Francisco's Inner Richmond District is NOT the easiest thing in the world to do. Boy were we loud. Lots of cussing and gear-grinding.

So...that was Rebecca. A hard-rocking, boy-chasing, off-the-charts creative lingerie designer, and an intelligent, irreverent soul.

Recently, Rebecca and her long-time boyfriend moved the hell out of Oakland, bought a house in beautiful Calistoga, California, located in the equally-lovely Napa Valley, just a short drive north of San Francisco and Oakland. They were in the process of restoring an old house, and they had just had a new furnace installed.

Unfortunately, it was installed incorrectly, and about 2 weeks ago, they went to bed one night and never woke up. The two of them died in their sleep; they were killed by carbon monoxide poisoning.

Rebecca waa 39 years old.

The photos I have here are from her friendster profile, which is still up, but I don't know for how much longer. Here is some stuff from her profile, completely unaltered, in her words:

Hobbies and Interests: music, fashion, weird people

Favorite Books: Anything by Magarite Durass

Favorite Movies: Terminal USA

Favorite Music: Country Teasers, The Fall, Male Nurse, Birthday Party, Butthole Surfers, The Stooges, Phantom Limbs. Old punk, old funk, old country, old blues. 70's disco and Okinawa folk.

Favorite TV Shows: Don't watch much-but love Southpark and Sex in the City

About Me: When you figure me out let me know.

Who I Want to Meet: My dog Zippo in the next life, when he comes back reincarnated as a human. We'll have a beer, and I will ask him about his nights at the Hump and Whine.


God fucking dammit, Rebecca, I can't believe you're gone. We're never going to talk dirty, or tell dirty jokes, or play with rubber penises, or make fun of certain co-workers (not you, Thomas), or jumpstart your shitty Honda with my equally-shitty GTI, or get drunk at the Ramada, or have random phone conversations...ever, ever again.

God, I'm going to miss you. :-(

Here is a photo I took...it was part of a study I was doing, but never finished the project because my camera broke. I planned on giving this to Rebecca...I was thinking of her when I took it.

Here ya go, Rebecca. Save a spot for me at the dive bar in the sky.




My phone rang tonight, and it was my friend Daigle (formerly Chris D.), asking why the hell he hadn't seen ChadFox (all one word) in a long time. He lives 2 blocks away from me, yet for some reason I don't see him very often. He and his roommate Brian are the Other Gay Guys who live in this neighborhood. Basically, we're responsible for holding up the fort around here.

We had dinner at Golden Boy Pizza, each having a few slices and a nice cold Fat Tire to wash them down. We moved on to the Lost & Found Saloon on Grant Avenue for a few more Fat Tires and some conversaytion.

Now, I first met Daigle when he was all of 18 years old...it's a long story...a friend's boyfriend was visiting me, and my houseguest decided to be a booty-ho and bring over some tricks. Daigle was one of them. Daigle decided he wanted to be friends with me instead of my houseguest's bootycall, and we've been extremely close in a platonic sort of way ever since. I'm his big gay older brother (he's 22 now) and he's like a little brat who needs to be kept in check and occasionally smacked around a bit to keep him in line.

Yeah, you read that right, Daigle. ;-)

So we're sitting at Lost & Found, and he starts telling me this crazy story (in a loud Boston accent, I might add) about how be broke the suction cup off his dildo while doing these crazy moves in his bathtub one night. It was so dirty, I had to make it a voiceblog. So here you go...Daigle and ChadFox at the Lost & Found, tonight, horrifying everyone in the place.

Well, not really. You can talk about dildos in L&F all day long and nobody will really care. People tend to be laid back in these parts...during the week, at least.

Oh, it's not exactly work safe. Either plug in your headphones or listen to it at home. ;-)

this is an audio post - click to play

Now, the first two pictures of Daigle are self-portraits. I think they're okay...I actually altered them a bit from their original form (cropping and adjusting contrast and highlights) but they're pure Daigle. The following two I took on my roof last November, one evening when he came home from work.

I forgot to mention this...Daigle is in the Coast Guard. And he's out and proud...not to mention one of the best troops the Coast Guard has.

Too bad he's too much of a pansy to handle a real branch of the military like the Air Force. ;-)


back from the southland

russian hill summit, 2005 -- by chad

You know, I love Los Angeles. I really do. I had such a blast this weekend...I really don't want to get into it right now, but it was fun.

Kinda sleazy at times, but fun nonetheless.

However, sometimes that city just aggravates me. People down there can be so wierd, they walk up to you and say, "Wanna fuck?" and then you proceed to the copulation part of the evening. I will admit I got hit on left and right down there, but only because I was a "new guy" down there. Thank god I met some friendly people at The Abbey in West Hollywood who bought me all these green apple martinis and got me a bit drunker than I had planned.

Then, try driving around LA. It's maddening. Cars cars cars cars cars...everywhere you look. The light turns green, you drive about 10 feet, then you stop again. Stop and go, inch forward, stop again. It's like you spend a huge chunk of your life behind the wheel of your car.

Not so in San Francisco, where I am proudly and happily car-free.

The thing that struck me the most as I went out for my latte this morning at Victoria Pastry at Stockton and Vallejo, was how crystal-clear blue the sky was. The air smelled clean and fresh. It was about 15 degrees cooler than LA, and quite comfortable. The humidity level was low. LA had been muggy and hazy this weekend...I don't mind that, I didn't really notice it until I saw how clear and clean the air was here this morning.

The morning sun was punching the walls of the buildings that surrounded me quite beautifully...it was almost as if the bay windows were smiling and taking in all the morning warmth and light. It was then I realized what a beautiful place I live in. Even the bad neighborhoods are beautiful in their own way. Most of all, I like the feeling I get when driving across the Bay Bridge after being in Los Angeles. The city unfolds on your right as you cross the suspension span, and I know (traffic permitting) it takes less than 5 minutes to drive to my front door from the center of the west span of the bridge.

This is good knowledge, especially if I have to pee.

I don't dislike Los Angeles, I really don't. I love the place.

I just think I love San Francisco more.




Okay, that's it.

I can't stand it another minute.

I have to get the fuck out of San Francisco for the weekend.

I've rented a brand-new, hot silver w/black interior 2005 Mistubishi Galant LS with a hot, torquey 3.8l V6, it's got a full tank of gas, so I'm on my way to Los Angeles. My friend Dan is there, staying at a hotel on Santa Monica in West Hollywood, and he said his room has an extra bed. I haven't seen that boy in 3 years, and I need a vacation.

I-5, here I come. I can't wait to eat at Pea Soup Anderson's in Santa Nella...it's an authentic roadside Americana faux Danish roadside attraction, complete with a huge fake windmill, in the middle of the fucking San Joaquin Valley. Even the waitresses dress up as little dutch women, although most of them are plump and Mexican. To make it even better, it hasn't been remodeled since...oh...1970 or so. The kitsch factor is just off the charts, and to be honest...the food is actually pretty damn good.

Of course, I need to make room for Harris Ranch, located on "the five" halfway between SF and LA. They have wonderful pot roast, and a good wine selection. Pot roast with garlic mashed potatoes and hot, freshly-baked bread and a big glass of hearty California Cabernet is my favorite meal there...maybe on my way back up.

I really dig that Mitsubishi...it's a fun car, fast as hell, and because I rented it at the O'Farrell Street office where I used to work last summer, I got a total deal on it. I had quite a few adventures while working there...and I had interesting co-workers as well.

Anyway, I snapped today's photo across the street from the San Francisco Hall of Justice. A bail bond place with a full open bar and an ATM for your convenience.

Now that's what I call service.

When you're outta luck, and outta cash...sometimes you just need a cocktail. Dad's Bail Bonds. We'll take care of ya.

© 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008 by Chad Fox. All rights reserved.