BLEAKNESS

He gazed out over the vast bleakness, disheartened because the hamsters no longer visited. In his nightmare Miss Bruin and the she-sheep had lectured him severely about his urge to eat their guests. And morning, in the cold waste lands of San Francisco (Nob Hill) was dark indeed, depressing. Even the thought of temporarily stealing the briar pipe that badger had been fiddling with -- a rather elegant Vernon tenon Dunhill made in 1932 -- did not cheer him up. Hamsters, so like tender juicy meatballs. But no. Scared away by the turkey vulture's horrible gustatory instincts.

He burrowed deeper into the pile of laundry.
So warm, so toasty, so richly perfumed.

Should he reform? Should he radiate a comforting vegetarian attitude toward the small furry meatball-like creatures, so that they would feel safe dropping by again? Should he repress his perfectly natural tendency to look upon them as ambulatory food?

He considered breakfast.

I myself have never been a breakfast person. It takes a while to get the juices flowing in the morning, more so as I've gotten older. It isn't until the first load of caffeine has hit cruising altitude that I can even contemplate solid food. On my work days I'll have a small pastry, maybe three and a half hours after getting up.

On days off the appetite might not arise till after the second or third pipe of the day.

On winter mornings the blood flows sluggishly and I wonder why I even bothered stepping out of the house at that depressing hour with a smoke. Oh yes, I remember, swallow pills at dawn. The ordered routine. Put on the water for coffee, take pills, go pee. After which the water is boiling and a refreshing cup of the dastardly Turk may be had. Go out and blearily stare at people pooing their dogs. Bark sotto voce at them to see if they respond.
Is it only their rear ends which are alert, or also the head?


I am not a morning person. My apartment mate and the roomies are. They come bounding out of her room full of piss and vinegar, wide awake, while I am getting ready to load up a pipe and stumble out of the house for a walk around the block, and when I return, there is evidence that in the intervening hour they have already had a full day before she heads off to work. The turkey vulture is perched on top of my clothes, holding on to my wallet and insisting that it's his 'baby". Sometimes it's a pipe I've been fussing with recently.

Or he's leering at one of the other small critters insisting that they would be happier dating him, why he's such a handsome fellow, the very best bird ever!


Don't mind the evil grumpus; he's not human yet.
He needs his second cup of coffee.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================