AT THE END OF A LONG DAY

Dinner, as it properly should be on a Saturday night, is curry and rice with naan. All over the United Kingdom, people are eating precisely that. To be followed in their case by excessive consumption of alcoholic beverages, loud off-key singing, and a second dinner of more curry, more rice, more naan, and more beer.

Intellectually I like that tradition. The key element for me is that the excess consumption of alcoholic beverages AND the off-key singing is five thousand miles away.

Perhaps some raita?


For very good medical reasons I abstain from alcoholic beverages. But capping the week with a succulent curry dinner is a splendid tradition. And the only people here who drink like fish are fratboys and European tourists, not damned well everybody.

The frat boy types across the street are having a party.
They do that very often. Nearly every weekend.


There must be a load of bad drugs in this quadrant. A naked man stumbled towards me as I came home, and there's a man collapsed on the curb up the block from the dude bros and their party. Shan't investigate. We're only a few blocks north of the demilitarized zone here, and lord only knows what it's like further down. At least I can't smell marijuana.

Twenty something white boys spread disease. It's a known fact.

It's fifty six degree Fahrenheit outside at present. San Francisco is a different climate than the rest of the state. Low to high nineties in much of California most of the day. The turkey vultures circled lazily in the warm up drafts, licking their beaks over the suburbanites expiring from the heat or losing their minds down below. Soon, my feathered brethren, soon. Once the Miller Lite goes to their heads and they kill each other, then we shall feast.
Like our brothers in Texas, fat with rednecks.

Is there anywhere around here where I can get motichur laddoo?

I feel like something sweet to finish this repast.

Please, no singing, tuneless ones.

Morris dance!



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