coasting with (or without) condiments

On a Wednesday I found myself staring at a Heinz Ketchup bottle next to an isolated glass pepper-shaker.

Where's the salt?

San Francisco was built over a roller coaster, sort of the way a roller coaster was built over Woody Allen's childhood home, and as time's gone on, there's been a natural desire to expand the coaster - make it bigger, higher, more dangerous and threatening. In nearly a blink, the coaster's developed new arms and legs, with more cars and more people riding it for all it's worth. The unstoppable progression has stretched the city out like a prostitute in Amsterdam's Red Light District. It's pushed and pulled while the structure in missionary has tried to contort, and without knowing it, while sitting pretty in my apartment, my apartment has bent and twisted and ebbed to accommodate the coaster's new, updated and fashionable position. I'm riding on God's big progressive amusement mobile.

And today I'm up on the high end of the track.

WEEEEEEEEE!

Then I realize I'm looking at ketchup on a waxed table where people have etched their names with dried out pens and swiss army knives. There's no salt.

Tomorrow will be different. Maybe I'll be on the down swing. If only I had the guts to put my arms in the air and enjoy the rush of the fall!

But it's out of my control. I never asked to live on top of a coaster - yet here I am. Up and down. Riding it out. Minding gravity.