When I came to the corner of Mason and Geary, my shoulder bag -- filled with newspapers, notebooks, and pens -- felt more like an overweight jockey, so I decided to give it a rest and slung it over a parking meter, keeping a watchful eye.

It was close to eleven at night, biting cold with a side of nasty wind. Normally, I would've been seeking refuge from the elements. But this time things were different.

I stood there, captivated by this jazz diva -- Elena de la Rosa -- who was hitting her best stride inside the Mason Street Wine Bar under the pink and amber lights.

Mama may have
Papa may have
God bless the child

It was like a trip back in time -- when jazz was king. That voice, that sultry sound exuding so much class and sophistication, drifted out onto the street, where the scene was a complete one-eighty. I mean, check it out:

You've got your panhandlers of every persuasion. It doesn't look like "United Pizza Fund" is having much luck at the moment, though. Another guy just sits there, killing time. One lady, Poodle for a Hairdo, bums me for a quarter. Nice Tourist hits me up for a light. Old Timer, no doubt broke and hungry, looks like some of the guys I know down at Bay Meadows: scruffy beard, pants too short, smoking a Winston while he sits on an upside-down bucket. Probably been dealt a bad hand all his life. Washed Up Writer wants the last drag off my cigarette.

We watch all "the richies" exit the Phantom of the Opera. Some of them make their way to Lori's Diner for some All-American chow next door to the Wine Bar. Very Beautiful People. Very chic. Very Hip...NOT!

Maybe you can explain something to me. How is it that these people can go out and spend a couple hundred for a night on the town, but they absolutely refuse to pay a buck for the Street Sheet?

Then there's the hookers, playing their little game of hide-and-seek ( or is it I'll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours ) with the cops doing the curbside crawl.

One of them, probably all of 21, comes up with her killer legs and Cleopatra cat-eyes and wants to know if I "wanna go?"

Are you kidding? For a hundred bucks, I could spend the whole weekend at the racetrack. At least I'd get a run for my money.

Can I just have one more Moondance
With you, my love
Can I just make some more romance
With you, my love

Back inside the jazz club, Elena puts the finishing touch on a Van Morrison classic, then bids the crowd a momentary adieu. She comes out into the night, shielded from the misty drizzle by a full-length black overcoat, and lights up a cigarette.

I mean, here she is, voice straight from heaven, and look what she's doing! That's gotta be murder on those 'pipes. How does she do that and (still) sing the way she does. Hell, I bet she can take Anita Baker or Nancy Wilson to a photo finish. Yeah, she's (that) good. Just another modern day miracle, I guess.

I should talk, me, the Jack -of-all-vices. If it's bad for you, chances are, I like it. I have this thing for Irish bars, Italian restaurants, and certain woman. And , of course, jazz joints like this with no cover.

In an attempt to save the arts, I feel compelled to tell Miss Jazz Diva what a crime it would be if she doesn't turn her pearl on the world.

She stood there, just in front of the doorway, taking an oh-so-casual drag, getting primed for the final hour. Now I know she's way outta my league. Could blow me away by 20 lengths if she wanted to. I'm like chocolate in a microwave. Another shot of Jim Beam and I decided to get brave.

"Excuse me, miss?" I said, going from Streetsmart Hip Dude to Bashful Schoolboy in about a minute. "I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed listening to your music."

I waited for the brush-off. Never came.

"Well thanks," she said, elated. "Really, thanks alot. I'd been having such a bad week--until now. You just picked my spirits up."

I couldn't believe it!

Here was this future jazz main event and star of the talent-packed Mason Street Wine Bar stable, inviting (me) in as her guest for the last set.

I had to bow out, however. I didn't quite feel dressed for the occasion. My sportswriter's special--Goodwill sportcoat, 501s-- aren't exactly GQ.

After a little more chitchat, she went back to work.

For a while there, I forgot all about how bad I've got it. In fact, I even kinda consider myself lucky. I mean, can you see me living in Topeka or Winnemucca? No way!

Just then, another homeless cat rolled by in his wheelchair. I couldn't help but be reminded of the Irish proverb:

I thought my life was rough because I had no shoes

That is, until I saw the man who had no feet.