So I'm walking down Taylor Street in the Tenderloin, gingerly passing the drugged-out and the drunken, when I see this guy walking toward me, talking with his hands to the person next to him. He's wearing a white button-down shirt and black slacks. Like the Werewolf of London, his hair is perfect. He makes eye contact with me, looks down, and then immediately looks up at me again, as if he somehow recognizes me. I get the feeling that this guy is rich, and sort of square, and for some reason I have tender... More >>>