I am a big fan of mobster movies such as “Godfather,” “Casino,” “Goodfellas” and “The Departed.” One important aspect of these movies is the crews. The crews have certain rules. One rule is that they can earn money any way they want, but will be taxed by their higher-ups. A tax can be imposed for any reason. This rule always floats across my mind whenever Sacramento finds new ways to tax people.   I know the city is desperate for money, as shown by city layoffs and city park cutbacks, and I would be fine with all of this if the city did not have a history of irresponsible spending. Pouring redevelopment money into failed restaurants, for example. Does anyone remember the restaurant Three M

I have driven a cab for 12 years. I started on the East Coast, where the term “hack” is a common phrase for a cab driver.  I was with a group of people and the question was was asked: Do you know what a Hack is? One guy said, "A bad writer?" Another said, “A computer thing?” I felt like a dinosaur. I thought, "No one is going to get it." Then I went on Twitter to put in "@Hackinsac." It was already used. Feel free to harass the guy for stealing my great idea. It’s probably some hippie selling little hemp cloth balls. I was about to give up, but no. I want the people of Sacramento to know that there is more to Sacramento — more than The Mix, The Park or the newest fancy restaurant that

Lately, in this publication, there has been a lot of fur flying regarding Midtown people and suburban people (specifically from Roseville, Rocklin and Granite Bay). Insults have been flung back and forth from both sides of the issue. Terms like “Ed Hardy” and “hipster” have been volleyed around with the vehemence of a food fight in a middle school cafeteria. Stereotypes are flung from both camps: People who live on the grid are all tattooed, Rivers Cuomo-looking, “Flight of the Conchords” wannabes, and the suburbanites are all roofie-dropping, backward cap-wearing “Jersey Shore” wannabes. I was once told that I was the type of person who didn’t like my cheese moved, meaning I don’t like

Living in Portland Maine, one of my favorite things to do was go to a great neighborhood wing place. I would wait all day on my days off, for their happy hour special of all you can eat wings. The wings came in many flavors, they even came a flavor called Chernobyl; if you were able to eat a dozen, you got it for free and your picture on the wall.. When I moved back out to Sacramento, I was in search for wings, that were as good , as my neighborhood haunt back east. I tried Fanny Ann’s, Wing Stop, and to my own personnel shame even Hooters. I had gotten so desperate, I was even hitting every Asian buffet I could find, but always disappointed. I had given up my search. Then I heard a new

 My first year driving a cab, I was 22 years old, and I was having the time of my life. Every night was a new adventure. Before every shift, I would ask what would fall across my path that night. There was no such thing as a normal night, and as a Bukowski/Kerouac-wannabe, I was Augstus Gloop, and the nightlife was my chocolate factory. But like that overeager nearsighted kid with a black hole for a stomach, I finally bit off more than I could chew. I picked up a fare just going a couple blocks. When we stopped the fare, he reached over from the backseat and tried to grab me, asking for my money. I got out of the cab still holding onto my first real leather jacket. He ended up ripping m