IN WHICH WE MEET KYLE'S MOM

Sometimes this blogger is not the most warm-hearted of people. Even remotely. Oh sure, I hope that most humans find satisfaction and fulfillment in their lives, plus good karma, delicious tofu, and puppies, but once in a blue moon I put that fervent wish on the backburner.
And then turn off the heat entirely.
It ain't even simmering.
Stone cold.


I AM A BITCH, AND SO ARE YOU!


My friend MK had given me a tin of pipe-tobacco, and I had filled a big bowl after enjoying tea-time snackipoos in Chinatown. Perhaps it was a mistake to then walk down Grant Avenue.

Grant Avenue is crowded during the tourist season, with slow moving pedestrians gawking at the colourful shops and strange native peoples. There are no paper parasols or off-duty frycooks where they come from, and the only non-whites are the Mexicans who keep everything running.

A large sour woman of a pinched wheatish complexion, very possibly from the People's Republic of Berkeley, saw me smoking and angrily informed me that I was a murderer.

"You kill children with that horrible habit!"

'No I don't, and you are taking up too much space.'

"People like you are destroying the world."

'Ma'am, kindly move your sanctimonious self aside. Life is far too short to deal with your type. You are loud and frumpily dressed, and you smell of bad karma.'
She seemed taken aback at my audacity, but then caught site of my Hello Kitty backpack. Which is the perfect size for half a dozen pipes, two or three tins of pipe tobacco, cleaners, tampers, matches, and a vitamin-packed energy drink if absolutely necessary.
Plus a small book.

"Hah, watcha got in there?!? Candy for tempting little kiddies?!?"

'A child's head, ma'am. We've got football practice this afternoon.'


I wish I could report that she fainted. Or plotzed. Instead she just looked daggers at me and left. The problem with white people like that is that they think they own the entire world. And Grant Avenue.
They block the sidewalk, say stupid things, and try on coolie hats.
Besides dressing funny, eating too much, and smelling bad.


It was an excellent smoke. Fairly robust, with Latakia pungency, and a nice undertone of decent Virginias. Precisely the kind of tobacco that makes me wish I had started smoking ten years earlier than I did, when I would still have been in my single digits. All children should learn to smoke fine pipe tobacco, as it inculcates good habits, dignity, and thoughtfulness.
And, with luck, they'll also avoid self-righteous pustules.
As well as loud frumps, possibly Berkeleyite.


If you see a mature man in San Francisco Chinatown with a Hello Kitty backpack, please don't stop to harass him. Unless you're fairly certain that the child's head in his bag is yours.
If you're polite, he'll give it back.




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