VAST TRACTS OF LAND, DID YOU SAY?

Social media yesterday was awash with Valentine's shiznit. The purpose of which was, clearly, to make those of us who are presently single, myself included, nauseous as well as green with envy. It didn't work. Well, the green with envy part. The nauseated bit, yes. And it turns out that many people are better cooks than they are often given credit for.
Or maybe they practiced that dish in secret.

On the other hand, I'm fairly certain that the darling Asian American baby-goth lesbian on the bus late at night heading home with her girlfriend didn't cook. They probably went to a nice restaurant, spoon-fed each other, cooed over the candle light, and then took a walk in the darkened streets holding hands. Which sounds lovely, and I hope they had a fine time.

And I refuse to speculate about anything else they might have done or might do.
Not any of my business.


My friend the bookseller and myself, being bachelors who are not involved with anyone, were unencumbered by the seasonal celebration of love, lust, dysfunction, vulgar commercialism, and excessive saccharine. We did our usual weekly jaunt into the steamy underbelly of this city, to discuss philosophy, pop culture, existential angst, cheese burgers, and why white twenty something marketing types shouldn't sing damn them.

When we began this tradition several years ago we were younger men. And both connected to a bookstore in North Beach. At that time it involved some quite enthusiastic drinking on occasion, but in the past few years I have become abstemious, though not a severe Protestant, and both of us are more responsible types than we were.

Cheese burgers have always been part of the plan.

As well as Jameson's Irish Whiskey.
He had some, I didn't.
Tea.



The rodent life in a certain alleyway became an observance a few years back when the city decided to beautify the place, because it was politically expedient and benefited the tourists. They left a big gaping trench which was sheer heaven for the rat population. Then, well over a year after they started, some bright Johnny in the health department must have realized that creating conditions for an outbreak of bubonic plague might, if it actually happened, end up being bad public relations AND damaging to the tourist trade.

They were very lively rats. Friendly too.
They'd run across my shoes.
Hundreds.

There were no rats evident last night. Possibly it was too cold.
Just white yupsters singing karaoke.
Damn them.




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