TRAVELING WITH A LOAD OF PIGS

Slightly exhausted still, after several hours sleep. Perhaps I should not have had three milk-teas over ice. It was too much caffeine in the middle of the day, and things simply went downhill from there.
I've got a caffeine and nicotine hang-over.

Yesterday I got down to the Chinatown - North Beach area by one o'clock, and after visiting my bank went up to Stockton Street for some lunch. Now, you understand that I start the day with strong coffee, in consequence of which I was already zotsed before I set out. Lunch meant even more coffee. After a refreshing smoke (one of my own blends in a bent briar), I ended up at City Lights bookstore, reading the first seventy pages of French Concession, a novel by Chinese author Xiao Bai which takes place in the underbelly of pre-war Shanghai.
Not bad at all, decent actually, but I do not feel it is a must-buy.
Perhaps the next seventy pages will convince me.

Feeling somewhat refreshed, even though the part about horses tired me out, I headed over to the Washington Cafe and Bakery. One glass of strong milk-tea over ice (it was a hot day). Then a second. Loaded up the sandblasted Stanwell with some of the same tobacco I had smoked previously and headed into the Financial District, picking up a third iced milk-tea on the way. By the time I got to Clay and Drumm Streets (Sue Bierman Park), I was feeling vibrant and dizzy. Caffeine, nicotine, and the sheer joy of being alive in Obama's America.
Yesiree, wired to the veritable tits.
I am a bucket by myself.

You know, the nice thing about a hot day is that you can swill more beverages than you thought possible, without having to go potty.

As well as scope out all the nice young ladies wearing shorts.
Short shorts. Short short short shorts.

I will gladly admit to liking the feminine leg. In all it's glory. It is a very neat-o-keen looking appendage. Seems almost aerodynomic, too. Curves, elegant tapers, and glowing velvet.
Good heavens I'm a pervert.

Anyhow, I was jangly when I got on the bus to go back over Nob Hill to my own neighborhood. By Stockton Street, the area near the back door was packed with a cluster of law-office types too stupid or scared to move further in, which prevented other people from getting on.
Unless the door can close, the bus won't go any further.
They did not seem to understand that.


"We aren't going to move unless you come on back, folks, there's plenty of room!"


After roaring this out from the comfort of my own seat all the way in the back, the clump of morons moved precisely far enough to allow the door to close and the bus to head further up hill.

The problem repeated itself at Powell Street.


"You are giving us plenty of reasons to whack you."


Okay, two more people are now on the bus, and there's STILL tonnes of space further back. Please move your stupid moronic selfish law-office drone selves further in.
And thank you, stupid people.
You are trainable.


"Feeble monkey!"


After Mason - Taylor more people were getting off than on. They snapped at each other, and nearly crushed a little boy. In their sudden bursts of bovine energy they also pushed an elderly Chinese gentleman into one of the metal posts, but fortunately that allowed him to spot a seat, which he dove for, desperate to get out of the way of moronic clerical types bright enough to work for lawyers but too dim to find their way out of a paper bag.


Years ago I worked in a law office. The department head could not remember my name, but knew what each and every one of the more than a hundred Beanie Babies on the big table behind her was called.
My immediate supervisor read the Weekly World News, and listened to Oprah on a radio in her cubicle. The smarmy Filipinas avoided me, except when one of them had to borrow a bus pass so that they could go SHOPPING during lunch. Which is the ONLY thing that engages the mind of the average Filipina; they're dull as dishwater at all other times. The mail boy, in the entire year I was there, never learned to pronounce my name. Yes, English was his native language, but no, he never excelled at it.

And some of the actual lawyers were right bastards.
Although smarter than the average monkey.

One the whole I prefer working with engineers, but there are none in the Embarcadero Office towers, unless they're slumming or kidnapped, and what gets on the Number One California before it reaches Sansome Street is almost entirely law office types.

After that it's banking serfs for two blocks, followed by Chinese housewives, kiddie-winkies, and elderly folks.


Embarcadero law office employees NEVER offer their seat to seniors, especially not Chinese old people.

It would interfere with paying attention to their cellphones.

Pregnant women are also out of luck.


I like people, I really do. But the Embarcadero folks aren't people.
They're shark bait.



The other thing seriously wrong with the Number One California heading up Sacramento after tea-time is that there are not nearly enough nice young ladies wearing shorts, and even if there were, one could not see them well enough because of the press of humanity. This is a major problem, which would be solved if only Muni scheduled more buses for that line. I feel sure that I've missed out on tonnes of curvy gam. A bus-full of thighs!
This is also something I blame on law-office types.
Darn it all, I feel cheated.


Ideally, nice thighs should always be within view. And that means nothing in between. At most three feet. Four. Four feet.
I feel very strongly about this.




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