by l.e. leone

Night ranger

I PLACE SOME stock in astrology. I do. Not a lot, but compared to all our other magical crap, like religion, ethics, and justice, astrology at least has this much going for it: the stars, and the planets. Real, physical things that really physically exist, like tractors and me, and you can stand outside at night in your underwear, weather permitting, and look up at them and go, "Yep."

Whereas all that other stuff, no matter how hard you look, and where and when, it only ever boils down to steam or smoke, and then not even that, just Pure Thought – policeman's club and Sister Mary Constipato's knuckle-bloody ruler notwithstanding.

Suicide bombers, suicide in general, war casualties ... classic examples of people thinking themselves and others to death. Astrologers think too much too. Way too much. Try and act as translators for what can only be a personal message, say the stars and planets are saying this, saying that, very neatly feeding our juju jones, our irresponsible craving for spirit, for essence, for guidance.

Well sir, I look, and I listen. I have looked and listened since I was a little kid, and I've enjoyed vantage points as dark as Black Rock Desert and as high as Lookout Mountain, and the only thing the night sky ever had to "say" to me, per se, was something like, "You're small." Or, "You're there." Or just, "Distance." Or no. All those things, yes, but now I might translate it more as, "Yep."

Uh-huh. Mmm-hmm. The psychiatrist nods his or her headful of thoughts and scribbles frantically in a notepad. Go on.

Well, take last night. Beautiful night. Beautiful sunset, orange, pink, and purple streaking through the redwood trees. I get out of the tub, close up the chickens, and head into town to the store for a little something to slap on the grill. There's a big moon through my pickup truck windshield, and exactly right directly straight-line below it, a small star. Like moon poop. A one-star constellation. That time of night, this time of year, my precise latitude and longitude. What does it mean?

Absolutely fucking nothing, of course. It means it was there and I saw it, thought my own personal, private, profound thought (i.e., moon poop), and then went and bought some chicken.

Oh, and a can of tuna fish, and this is the extent to which I place stock in astrology, because I don't even really like tuna fish. In a can. So why did I buy it?

You see what I'm saying? Because it was there, dude, like mountains and stars and me and tractors. The older I get, the less patience I have for things that aren't there. Got wind of a restaurant down near the ball field supposed to be a "taste of the tropics," with jerk chicken and blackened snapper and such, sounds great, right?

So I pick up Binko on my way there because he's right on my way, just got off of work, hungry, and between the two of us, and all our eyes and hungers, and even a little piece of paper with the address on it, we couldn't find the place. It wasn't there! I don't care how great a restaurant is, if it's not there, I'd rather eat somewhere else.

Especially in this case because the neighborhood was looking alienatingly uppity and crowded anyway, and there wasn't nowhere to park. So we hightailed it back toward the Mission and on South Van Ness between 14th and 15th discovered Mi Tierra, which neither one of us had ever noticed before, let alone been to. The whole block was one big landing strip of parking spaces, and we pulled up right in front, like coming home from outer space for the holidays. Houston, we have a restaurant.

Mi Tierra!

It's Mexican and Salvadoran food. I got pollo ranchero ($9.25) because it said "house favorite" next to it. Binko got two pupusas with rice and beans ($8.25). Everything was great, except the beans I think could have been better. But, hey, they existed.

The chicken was kind of fried, kind of not, very tender and tear-away style, as if stewed. Leg and a thigh, my two favorites, drizzled with a very good ranchero sauce. Loved it.

Good, thick, fresh chips. Good salsa. If it was a weekend, I might of gotten birria. But it wasn't. So I didn't.

Look. It's Thanksgiving, right?

Is it clear out? When you're done eating, go outside and look straight up. Don't think anything. Just look, and listen, then fall down and kiss the big dirty thing that you live on.

Mi Tierra. 324 South Van Ness (at 14th St.), SF. (415) 252-8204. Mon.-Fri., 10 a.m.-8 p.m.; Sat.-Sun., 9 a.m.-8 p.m. Takeout available. Beer. MasterCard, Visa. Wheelchair accessible.