SWEEP LIKE THE WIND, PEOPLE!

My apartment mate came home late on Wednesday. I was rather worried about her, because the last time the Giants won the World Series, proud citizens rioted and torched a city bus.
So I was glad to hear her come in.

She's my apartment mate, there's nothing going on between us.

Which would give me the opportunity to bring home someone sweet, except that I have never been desperate enough for "action" to pick at random, and I haven't actually been looking for any either, given that in San Francisco that must, inevitably, mean being psychologically abused by a stringy rancid vegan blonde who is desirous of saving the wales, blocking the boat, and shopping for fabulous handbags.

By "action" I don't mean volunteering for the French Foreign Legion, or the Israeli Paratroopers. Which, given that most of the asshats I know are married, is the inevitable result of pursuing amour in this city.
Running away to join the circus is one way to escape.
Other than the two methods also mentioned.
All of three of them require rabies.

It isn't worth it.


It didn't used to be this way. Once upon a time there were women in this city who were real people, not walking fashion plates for freakazoid, tweaky strung-out Midwestern trustfund babies looking for someone to subsidize the life-style to which they are oh so entitled, or consumerite slags out to do something meaningful omg! before adopting two Bolivian orphans and settling down as creative and unique individuals.

Since then we've been discovered by the internet.

Be that as it may.


No, I haven't joined any churches or exercise clubs to find a mate either. That meshugge I am not; you never find intelligent people in either place.
Plus I don't worship, and I try to avoid healthfreaks.

Universities are out of the question also, so I haven't bothered auditing classes. One cannot discuss anything at all with business majors or basket weavers.

Or anyone who reads Sylvia Plath.


Anyhow, at a few minutes before ten, a strange and brilliant woman opened the door, and remarked that the streets were going crazy.
There was much happiness out there.

"Yay, our team won! Let's grab mops and Ajax and clean the streets. Let's wash down a bus! Buckets for everyone! 
We'll make it sparkle for the parade!"

You're right, my dear, that never happens. Instead, couch fires, broken glass, overturned dumpsters, and several tens of thousands of drunk and disorderly hooligans, who were completely and utterly convinced that the Giants victory somehow expanded their own shrivelled balls and added three inches to their poor uneducated weenies.

Down in the Mission, police in riot gear with batons circled the crowd, like vegans around a bowl of beandip.

"Grab your brooms and let's do some civic service!"

That, too, was not part of the programme.
To her dismay.

On Mission between Sixteenth and Twenty Second Street, several bonfires were set, idiots were arrested, and passers-by attacked.
The garbage haulers raced around madly trying to pick stuff up before the out-of-control herd could find it and light it up. A mob of ecstatic morons blocked Market Street and marched to the Ferry Building, spreading mayhem and anarchy as they went.

Bus shelters have been vandalized. Shots have been fired. People trying to put out fires have been assaulted. Windows broken. Cop cars gang-tagged. Street signs destroyed. Graffiti. Flying bottles. Fists. Vomit.

Just before 1:00 AM there was gunfire near my apartment.

Elsewhere the feu de joie happened earlier.

Helicopters flying overhead.

Crashing sounds.


Between Broadway and Green Street, Polk was closed to traffic, the paddy wagons were parked, and nearly forty police officers were creating order out of chaos. For two blocks the pavement was ankle-deep in broken glass, spilled beer, burnt pizza and garbage, and over it all the the pungent smell of skunkweed (legitimately therapeutic medical marijuana, you can be sure). Sidewalks were crowded with belligerent drunks and extremely unstable people, and at any moment the storm threatened to break out anew. We. Are. The. Champions.

Many people were dressed in panda suits.

A bad night for liquor stores.

And Muni Buses.



This is why you dill pickles can't have nice things; you just piss on it.





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