At the back of the hill

Warning: May contain traces of soy, wheat, lecithin and tree nuts. That you are here
strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton.
And that you might like cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Monday, July 02, 2018


The bus driver finally kicked the two dudes off the bus on Van Ness Avenue, one stop before I disembarked. At that point too many other passengers had complained about them smoking, drinking, and sharing reefer in the back. Which, to all of us from Mill Valley onward, had been obvious -- most of us didn't say anything, because we all just wanted to get the hell out of Marin and back to civilization -- but it may have been "therapeutic".
One of them was missing a leg, poor guy.
The other one, a mind.

Marin County batshit is nothing like San Francisco batshit.

After ten hours of those people, I too wanted to get home. Despite many of them being subclinically neurotic, and despite Tin Foil Hat Steve ranting worse than ever before, it had been a good day, though long. Tin Foil Hat Steve is now convinced that in addition to our own government tracking us electronically, the Germans are mounting a cyber assault upon the United States. As proof, he showed me an image on his cell phone.
Which said that something was made in Poland.
Poland! Poland!

"Poland is the German name! I know! My mother was Jewish!"

Well gee whillickers, TFHS, that changes the paradigm!

I promised him I'd research it on the internet when I got home. It was a slow morning, and his rant went on for nearly an hour. Maybe his medication ran out, or the dose needs to be upped, or he isn't medicated but needs to be.
He does need to stay off of coffee, though.

There were others. At one point I offered someone amateur psychological counseling -- which I almost never do, because I also guarantee that it will increase their trauma and despair -- and he nearly took me up on it.
One of these days I'll probably damage someone.
Totally without intending to.

After dinner (meatballs and bittermelon with black bean sauce cooling on the stove now, to be served soupily over noodles with a squirt of Sriracha and a squeeze of lime shortly), I shall head out with a pipeful of Gawith's Cabbie's Mixture for a last smoke of the day and a whisky.
It's medicative, as well as very therapeutic.
And ever so well deserved.

The smoking drinking pothead from the bus passed me on the way home.
He was not entirely oblivious at that point, as he was happily shouting out "Boobies! Boobies!", pursuant a woman he saw half a block away.
I was a bit pre-occupied; I did not notice her boobies.
But I'll assume that they were remarkable.
As many boobies are.

Tomorrow, more of the same.

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