HOW TO BE A LADY

Far be it from me to get hung up on gender roles, or the behaviours and occupations suitable to whichever sex. My mother, at slightly less than five feet tall, was tougher than many of the men I've known, and in the words of a drag queen who used to hang out at one of the local drinking holes on Polk Street, "it takes a man to be a real woman".

In some ways it's a mental thing.

On the other hand, having one of the stuffed creatures insist that he is a lady, despite him sex-harassing the small female sheep, is a bit much.
It's totally innocent, though. He's too juvenile to mean much by it.

The she-sheep has offered to clobber him, but good.

She's small, pretty, and very lady-like.
Incredibly fierce, too.
Watch it, boy.


I'm all in favour of women seizing the reins, driving the car, and beating the bejayzus out of people that need their bejazus thoroughly out-beaten.

As long as like a proper lady, they remember to say 'please' and 'thank you'. "Please excuse my mayhem", and "thank you for bleeding to death". "Sorry I had to break your jaw.", and "I'm sure your guts will heal".
I'm a bit of a sexist on that score, I'm afraid.
It's all about proper manners.


In my first year of high school, one of my classmates, an elfin petite blonde girl, very nice, very pretty, calmly broke the arm of someone else when he wouldn't stop bothering her. The rest of us were all very impressed by her spirit, and he never bothered her again.

Good manners are important, and it's not just consideration for others.
It's also about self-respect, and a sense of personal independence.


So when the man I know to be an alcoholic used "please" when asking for money while I was out smoking, of course I gave him some. Yes, I know the chances of it being used on cheap vodka are rather high -- they're darn well astronomical -- but once you've given something, it's no longer yours, you relinquished it, and whatever he spends it on is his decision. When you're barely above ground and in the gutter, perhaps rotgut IS the right choice.
And lets face it, in these times him getting a job is rather unlikely.

I'd rather he got his health checked out, spend the money on that.
But that's also exceedingly unlikely, at any time.

Peterson Billiard, purchased on Polk Street

If while out with my pipe I head uphill, and stay at that elevation during the walk, running into needy street people is rare. Heading downhill to Polk Street or Van Ness, that's pretty well guaranteed. And one cannot take the same route all the time. The main problem with Polk Street is the joggers, bicyclists, inconsiderate hosebags walking two or three abreast so that one has to step out into traffic to maintain distance, and jerks who refuse to wear a facemask, such as the pigtailed dude who yelled something at me this past autumn for smoking when the forest fires to the north had made the air unbreathable, and I really hope he dies of the plague.
Or an unclean ailment. Brain or genitals.
Es ist mir scheiß egal.


In all honesty I rather like Polk Street.

TOBACCO INDEX


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