The Mad Hatter of Market Street

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Every week, I bike through the worst neighborhood of San Francisco and then get into the manual elevator at the historic, decaying building that holds my ballet studio. There, I spend a few minutes with the operator who is clearly and visibly insane. I enter some monologue that has been running for a long time. It doesn't necessarily involve you, it’s just whatever is on his mind: the need to go with the flow, the warranty on his phone, the changes these days, the price of apples, vaccines, the

Goya's The Madhouse Every week, I bike through the worst neighborhood of San Francisco and then get into the manual elevator at the historic, decaying building that holds my ballet studio. There, I spend a few minutes with the operator who is clearly and visibly insane. I enter some monologue that has been running for a long time. It doesn't necessarily involve you, it’s just whatever is on his mind: the need to go with the flow, the warranty on his phone, the changes these days, the price of apples, vaccines, the illuminati, that you've gotta watch out in this neighborhood. There is always a

The Mad Hatter of Market Street

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