THE OPEN AIR SANATORIUM

While smoking my pipes yesterday I ventured onto Polk Street too many times. The first disturbing person was having a loud fit, yelling at invisible people in a doorway. The second wore striped leotards, and randomly discarded snack packaging. The third had shorts on. In freezing weather, shorts indicate drugs or insanity. The fourth was a neighborhood loony, dysfunctional and transgender, who applies her kissy-poo lipstick with a trowel.
The fifth stumbled, gibbered, and was insane.

Polk Street provides a rich and complex panorama of San Francisco street life which no tourist should miss -- it's why you came here, pilgrim -- and I can well do without.

I think today when smoking my pipe outdoors I shall avoid Polk Street, and wander around further uphill. Larkin, Hyde, and Leavenworth. Mason. Powell.

The nuts usually roll down to the flat areas.


I may end up in Chinatown at some point.


Far more normal people there.

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