At the back of the hill

Warning: If you stay here long enough you will gain weight! Grazing here strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton. And you might like cheese-doodles.
BTW: I'm presently searching for another person who likes cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Tuesday, January 03, 2012


When I moved from North Beach in 1993, I did not go very far. Just the other side of Nob Hill, before you get to Polk Street. It’s a pleasant neighborhood, ethnically and culturally mixed. The nearby shops and restaurants reflect that diversity, and cater to a more exciting segment of the population than you will find out in the avenues.
More vibrant. Less oppressive.
Yes, there are pretentious people here too. But they’re usually twenty-somethings who have moved out to California to get in touch with their artistic side, and let their self-important creativity and brilliance shine.
They’re easily ignored, they’re rather shallow and there isn’t much there.


The morning bus up Clay Street towards the downtown presents several interesting types. By the time it hits my stop, it is mainly filled up with office workers who do not feel that anyone else needs to get on, and who especially resent the elderly folk heading in to Chinatown.
You can tell by their cell-phones and electronic reading material that they are very important people, and the presence of “those” folks seriously disturbs their equilibrium.
As do the little children. Who are usually exceptionally quiet and well-behaved, because they know instinctively that large white office workers who are imposing and brilliant may go ape-shit crazy at any moment and start rabidly biting everyone near them.
Or might just faint from the strain of putting up the wrong sort of people, and, toppling over unconscious, crush the nearest five year old.
Which would delay all the other frightfully important and significant office workers, and the world would come to an end.

It’s all your fault, kid.

When a person who gets on at my stop finds a seat, it's a victory for all of us. Hah, they got one! Success!
Normally the very important people from out in the avenues, who are heading to their downtown desks, will occupy every space they can, even splaying across two or three seats if possible, just to prevent lesser mortals from invading. Their very important gym bags and overstuffed handbags will flow into the aisle, and if any one dares object, they'll recognize that as the imposition it is and bitterly resent the rudeness of that lesser mortal. Fortunately the few of them who haven't found a seat yet are cluster-fudging up front, so there's a chance that no inferior beings from the ethnically mixed neighborhood will be able to get on anyway.
They smile as they imagine a long line of elderly people and little children laboriously trudging up hill.

I may have mentioned recently that I despise tattoos and piercings?
Please add heavy make-up, harlot nail-polish, and plucked eye-brows to the list. People who are that obsessed with their appearance, yet that entirely uninformed about what actually looks attractive, indicate by their beastly paintjobs how little there is, and in what little value they hold it.
Don't gild the lily. Especially if it's damn well wilted.

Just lipstick alone is staggeringly effective.
Adding greasy blues, greens, and purples to the cheeks and eye-lids detracts from the elegance of a decent face, and makes it resemble spoiled fruit pizza, or a corpse awaiting an electric jolt. Ma'am, you is ugly.
Oh well, the bucket of cheapazoid perfume (or aftershave, for you men), will keep everyone's minds off the vulgar personal advertising.

At last we make it to Stockton Street. Many of the standees escape, gratefully breathing fresh air untainted by pungent clown-makeup, aromatic unguents, reeky fruitique soaps and shampoos, and sweet-smelling blemish disguises.
Ylang-ylang, vanillin, vetiver, bergamot, and strawberry.
A sparkling young lady on her way out may smile, as if to say "you poor man, you have five more blocks with these funky corpses!".
Or a petite vibrant mother of three might think "oh the humanity, he's surrounded by stinking werewolves and sugary tarts, how sad!"

Yes. It is. It's a tragedy.

Rolling down hill surrounded by very important office workers. The same people who, in the evening, will clusterfudge near both doors, so that the driver on Sacramento will not dare let on passengers at Grant or Stockton Street.
He doesn't want to be lynched by his bus-load of middle-class corpse-eaters whose fragrances are wearing thin, and who might be frustrated from very importantly doing next to nothing all day.
They're still brimful of attitude, and poisonous besides.
Flintily disapproving of anyone who isn't like them.
And, oh horrors, some of "those people" might have bought food!
Can't have that - it offends our refined office-worker nostrils!
Quick, open up the bottle of Gucci Intense, and sprinkle!
Thank you. Disaster postponed.
Better than holy water.

I usually take the cablecar home. By that time, I've had it with the downtown crowd.
Either that or the number 12 Pacific, if I want to pick up some roast duck at 新凱豐燒臘店 on Stockton.
It's yummy and delicious. And it just smells SOOOOOOO gooooooood!
Juicy fatty roast duck has a wonderful fragrance.
Someone should find out how to bottle it.
I think I'd use it as aftershave.
Lather it on with a trowel.

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