I’m becoming more convinced that coffee has become less of an aesthetic or culinary element in our culture as it’s become an accessory, just like the handbag or the pearl necklace. And for some people, going out (and, say, riding Muni) without it is like going out naked.

Or so I imagine, for the hapless young musician-cum-fashionista boarding the 22-Fillmore a bit south of Geary the other day. A moderately crowded 22, plenty of people standing, and where having an extra hand available could be useful. Especially since the other was already taken up with your roll-on suitcase, upon which your handbag was precariously perched. At least you’d strapped your guitar to your back somewhat firmly.

Remember that thing about the free hand? Know what Muni buses tend to do when pulling away from a stop? Right, they often lurch. This one lurched. You promptly fell down the aisle like a pregnant cheerleader with a boyfriend about to ship out for Basic. Okay, I have some sympathy — it’s hard to wrangle suitcases on crowded buses. I picked up your suitcase for you. And handed you your bag. It was more or less at that moment that I noticed the Starbucks cup occupying your other hand, whose contents had just discharged all over the lap and legs of the guy sitting across from me. A cup thickly and thoroughly covered with your bright red lipstick as if to be more an advertisement of your fellatio technique than a caffeine source.

You took the bags, and to your credit you did seem to be genuinely apologizing to the newly coffee-flavored gentleman. Okay, you didn’t thank me — perhaps apology rose above gratitude in your mind. You also ignored the tissue I held out, perhaps not making the connection with its potential coffee-absorbing qualities. Then you lurched on toward the back, and ensconced yourself with a herd of roughly similar young urban critters.

You passed by again on the way out (in the lower Haight, naturally). You actually threw your suitcase out the back door rather than lift it down the stairs — not sure whether that was pragmatism or desperation at work. Where was the coffee? Being carried, as it turned out, by a young man from the back of the bus — perhaps your lipsticked advertisement had worked. He handed it to you. You left. Various other passengers muttered about you before turning their attention to the next available stimulus.

I’m not a fan of food/beverage bans on public transit — for one thing, the people most inclined to obey them are the same people most inclined to clean up after themselves, or exercise some judgment in how and when to bring their stuff on the bus. Certainly the ban hasn’t made the back of the 48-Quintara any cleaner. But it does help me feel self-righteous, one of the relatively few pleasures Muni affords, at least until they start serving coffee.

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