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, June 24, 2014


In only two short blocks I saw five scenes which, taken together, show that while the drunken sex-crazed twenty-something drones of start-up industries rule the night in San Francisco, like e-vampyres and social-media zombies, the more standard dysfunctionals dominate the day.
At least in my neighborhood.

Item one.
Long-haired person of probably Asian ancestry kneeling by the corner and using the curb to place all of his credit cards in a neat line. Then rearranging them obsessively while muttering under his breath.
No, I didn't stop to observe further. I suspect he may have issues with the plastic life.

Item two.
Person of dishevelled chemical dependent appearance throwing chunks of bread at pigeons with murderous venom and force. Several times the missiles bounced off a feathered back, whereupon the target's companions started pecking fiercely at the ammunition. This did not entertain the man, but caused him to renew his bombardment with greater vigour.

Item three.
Bespectacled homeless person having an animated conversation with a rat outside Walgreens. Possibly the rat realized that he was the alpha-male. But the discourse indicated that the human being was still unclear.
It was, by the way, a personable looking rodent.
A vermin with gravitas.

Item four.
Women of ANY age should not wear canary-coloured yoga pants. Especially not if they have scuff marks around the haunch. The fur top garbing the withers and precious little else seemed out of place. More important even than that, wearing an expression of leering intoxication and trying to catch the eye of a passer-by spoke of abstraction.

Item five.
A man in a dress. Plus make-up. Lipstick. Big faux pearls. And a five-day growth of beard. He was trying to hand out flyers, but the little girls to whom he offered these shied away like frightened forest creatures.
The long-ashed cigarette dangling out of a corner of his mouth gave him a rakish air.

All of this was before tea-time (which, even in San Francisco, happens at or after four o'clock, more or less). I ventured forth to acquire canned tuna, mayonnaise, salami, chilipeppers, and bread. You can understand why I don't go in that direction more than once a week; trolls live there.
Normally I purchase my comestibles in Chinatown.
More crowded, but far less loopy.

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