FILL ME UP WITH BUTTERY GOODNESS!
That counts double after visiting Berkeley, with the addition of colourful Guatemalan fabrics and native sh*t, and nearly so when exposed to San Francisco.
The Bay Area is the most consciously meaningful and irritating part of the planet, and many people who live here are insufferable.
No, I no longer want to save the whales. Or the transgender tribals of the Amazon rainforest. Or the spotted screech owl. Or your right to smoke marijuana because it's therapeutic and green.
I am suffering from Pretentious Twat Burnout.
[A coworker asked me what I was going to do after I got home this evening. "Very simple", I said, "I intend to have a cup of coffee, cook dinner, and get on the internet for a while to bellyache. Don't know about what yet. I'll find something. Then I'm going to bed."]
All I really want to do after a full day in Marin is withdraw to an inviting bakery or chachanteng in C'town, order a cha siu sou and a milk-tea, and read a newspaper. I do not wish to head into North Beach to be surrounded by artists and creative people, I have no desire to go to a bar or restaurant that caters to young urban professionals (some less young and urban than they would like to appear), and I certainly shan't visit any of the hip places on Polk Street or in the Mission.
Fashionable clubs and precious eateries do not appeal.
One of my friends owns a restaurant with rather fabulous food. Which the bus back from Marin passes, so I can look in and appreciate that his hard work has borne fruit, the crowds flock to his door.
But I think that being there and enjoying the food would drive me up the wall. Any place that is so popular is incredibly noisy, and, like the cigar bar on a busy night, oppressive and uncomfortable.
Too loud for conversation.
[Last night I slept horribly. It took ages before I fell asleep, my right leg kept twitching and aching. It's probably a good thing that there is no one sleeping next to me, because I kept waking up and tossing, turning ..... it would have driven anybody else up the wall.]
The only time when the loudness goes stratospheric at any of my usual Chinatown hangouts is when Muni Dude has an argument with one of the other patrons. And that is actually entertaining.
Sit back, have a second cup of milk-tea and another pastry.
Enjoy the spectacle, and rate the performance.
Have some more buttery goodness.
I really wish that the old neighborhood stayed open late.
And that there were actual benches along Waverly.
So that one could sit and smoke there.
[In this city middle-aged men with sleep disorder are not well served. When it was still possible to smoke in coffee shops, one could've gone to the donut place around the corner. Yes, it's open twenty four hours, and long after dark it's very popular among the drunks, insane people, pot heads, petty hoodlums, sex-workers, and drug addicts.
But you cannot smoke there, because that's unhealthy.]
I do NOT want to talk about Trump. Or Clinton. Or Jill Stein.
Or work. Or music. Or sports. Or handbags.
Maybe I don't want to talk.
It's been a busy day.
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