AN EPISODIC PSYCHOPATH

When I got on the bus yesterday, an elderly white guy of the whiny bitch type angrily demanded of the driver when Muni would finally do something about the bums who regularly hang out at that stop (Clay Street at Polk, heading East). It was untenable! Every day they were there drinking and smoking, cussing and frightening legitimate passengers! The bus driver mumbled about it being up to the police, for non-emergencies call 311.
I kept my mouth shut, because I can tolerate the situation.
The elderly Cantonese who wait there ditto.
It's that entitled white dude.

Indeed, it IS an issue. But the city ain't going to do squat. It would take police and social workers away from more important things, and two or three crazy people getting blotto while huffing cheap ciggies in the same spot every day is less trouble than the agitated psychos that will end up in the emergency room at SF General and attack nursing staff if unattended for too long. The city is probably hoping that a number of those people will die of pneumonia on the street this winter, and stop being a problem.

One of the newer psychos was involved in a loud argument with a sanitation worker. Of whom there are too few, and we should value them.


東華醫院

I got off at Mason Street and headed toward Chinese Hospital. My plan was to alert the folks in the clinic that some of my meds needed refilling, then head to lunch, returning later to pick up the pills at the pharmacy upstairs.

They were, however, miles ahead of me. The pharmacy had already been notified, the prescriptions could be picked up. At the pharmacy everyone recognized me. One of the meds had not been flagged, they would check on it, could I wait?

Well, how about I return in an hour or so? What I didn't mention to them was that I would have lunch, then wander around for a good long time smoking my pipe, which I have been told now by over a dozen concerned individuals at the hospital is bad for me and I really must quit.
No need to upset them on that score.
Just quietly enjoy.

[Finally had the bitter melon omelette over rice which I had been wanting since last week, when San Pan Mei on Stockton turned out to be closed for New Year.]


煙斗佬

I really cannot speak too highly about Chinese Hospital. Extraordinary care, competence, and consideration. I'm still alive, and given how warmly I am treated there, I should wish to be sicker and older, because I really like all the people with whom I come in contact there. If I live long enough that will undoubtedly happen. But they will make sure it isn't soon.

I'm nearly back to 100%. My vibrancy has returned.

Thanks to Chinese Hospital, I am now quite full of piss and vinegar.
It's like 2016 through 2019 never happened. This is going to be a good year.

[Walking is still a bit problematic, especially in cold weather. Probably circulatory issues in my legs, particularly the right one, but we'll get to that eventually. A pipe smoker must go outdoors nowadays, and keep moving.]


精精神神 ...

A few hours later, when I got back to my street, the bus stop psycho had taken over the sidewalk and was arguing with himself.
Needed careful stepping around.
Later in the evening, while having a smoke on my steps, I noticed the same man wandering in traffic and yelling. Not intelligible words and phrases, but it sounded threatening. Occasionally he would punch an invisible person just above his head, or gesticulate theatrically.

Very possibly off his meds.

He was still doing his thing when I left later for the weekly late night jaunt, but asleep when I returned. He'll be an obstacle for the office workers at that stop right about now, and will likely be fully alert when the elderly Cantonese go down to Chinatown.



Final note: I have reached the age of being called mister. Sin saang (先生). Which is NOT how I feel. Even "ah sook" (阿叔 'uncle') seems far too formal, but "lou yau" (老友) and "daai lou" (大佬) are both a bit off. My name with sin saang appended is startlingly new.




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