THOSE AREN'T THE RIGHT NUMBERS!

Well, the holiday is finally over, but unfortunately some of these hosebags haven't gotten the memo. When we first passed the karaoke venue on the way to the burger joint, it was nearly empty. Which would have been quite ideal if that had held till we got there, but in the hour and half interval in between -- comestibles, cerveza, hot tea -- it had filled up, and the screeching rendition of 'Landslide' was audible from a block away.

Sometimes I feel like Herbert's dad.
And I long for Swamp Castle.
No electricity.


Ah, those good old days, son, when if you wanted the telephone, which was rotary back then, you'd throw rocks at the housekeeper to use it. You youngsters have probably never even seen a rotary phone or sprained your index fingers. Simple pleasures!
Sometimes you had to employ your toes instead.
Thumbs hadn't been invented.

Good lord, the city is filled with vacuous twits!
What is this world coming to?

There are more hoboes sleeping on the pavement in Chinatown and North Beach now. This season has not been kind to the crazies. Earlier I had heard a gentleman having a loud conversation with an invisible person. He got around a bit, first ahead of me, then behind, ahead again, down the block (where he stopped to slapfight other invisibles), and finally around the corner where he probably frightened the tourists outside a restaurant.

That's normal. It's traditional San Francisco.



NEITHER HERE NOR THERE

Also normal: The Christmas afternoon clerk at a corner market (Polk & Clay Liquor) thinking he could pull a fast one on the stupid gringo (me) then being rude and abusive when caught, shouting "f*ck you mother f*cker I never want to see you here again". Which he won't.
No, I shan't complain to the proprietor. For all I know, that's his cousin.
Or his catamite. Probably both.



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