A few were quite unbalanced, verging on dangerously insane, so their departure is a good thing. But one wonders which other neighborhood is now blessed with their presence and their unresolved issues.
Did we possibly eat them?
Because this is San Francisco. We don't help the down and out much. There is no funding, and there are far too many crazies to count.
We got more than our fair share because of migration.
They have become anonymous surplus.
Many computer programmers and holders of marketing or business degrees also migrated here, and I'm not sure that that is that much better, as they are full of themselves and talk too much.
I get to see the vain, the self-absorbed, and the entitled-by-their-own-conviction unabashedly be themselves on a daily basis.
But on the other hand ...
TENNIS, ANYONE?
No, she wasn't a bombe-shell in the classic sexist sense, which one suspects is why most people enjoy watching tennis. Long-limbed amazons with a feral carnivorous air, viciously swatting balls and dripping sweat, pursuing their sport ferociously, brutally, murderously. Long legs and athletic bosoms all abounding.
But she was incredible good to look at. Her face reflected happiness while playing the game, and there was an intelligence in her features.
Radiant is probably the word I'm looking for.
She and her partner seemed like well-balanced individuals.
One of the denizens of the lounge likes watching tennis, especially when there is no golf on the telly. He often eats fried chicken while doing so.
He's not insane, nor peculiar beyond belief; those are his two greatest oddities, and there is naught suspicious about him at all. He's old.
I doubt that he would have found this game worth watching.
Just two nice people playing tennis together.
Non-aggressive competition.
There is something extremely pleasant about observing a well-proportioned energetic young lady with an expressive intelligent face happily bashing her balls on a not particularly warm day in a quiet part of Chinatown while one is smoking a briar filled with a straightforward mixture of predominantly flue-cured leaves and a smidge of Perique after having a hot cup of Hong Kong milk-tea and a flaky chicken pastry at Wing Hing.
It's meditative, and good for the soul.
As well as a long sentence.
I doubt that the players OR the observer would make for good television entertainment, though.
No drama.
Afterwards I wandered down to Sue Bierman park, filling up another pipe at Hotaling Place, which was empty except for three Mexicans with aprons smoking cigarettes. The area around Sydney Walton was quiet, Drumm Street nearly deserted. In the trees along Washington the parrots were visible among the leaves only by reason of their brilliant crimson heads, like small berries or fruits among the greenery, which one noticed first when they moved. Not much noise -- usually they make a racket -- nor any of the giddy wrestling for primacy or the best seat in which they often engage; the birds were grooming each other, or flying around happily investigating branches on other trees.
This branch is totally fabulous, I'm so happy I found it!
Perch perch perch perch perch!
Yeah baby!
One neurotic pigeon on the pavement.
My heavens, this hydrant!
What it is!
When pigeons show any personality at all, it usually isn't likable.
Strange, maladjusted, with a note of self-absorption.
Very fitting for a city like this.
Parrots are a wondrous anomaly.
We need more of them.
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