THE JUNGLE IN THERE AND OUT THERE

There are too many skeevy tourists wandering around at night. As well as people missing screws. Item: the black dude who fingered the railings in the shallow wall niches of a bank, in between mewing, and dithering back and forth. Item: the guy with bright hued jogging shoes that skipped and hopped whenever he got close to parked cars along the street, circling them while doing his silly walk. Item: the scrawny fellow who used his own spit to slick back and style his hair, who passed by several times. Item: the two hispanics who may have just been stoned out of their calabazas pequeñas. And all the German and French speaking goobers who walked down the street while I was smoking my pipe.

The Chinese people were fine. A few of them smiled and nodded in greeting.
I'm just the white man who smokes a pipe in the neighborhood.
Which is a normal activity. And clearly harmless.


Of course a few of them probably expect me to be drunk and staggeringly crazy at some point, because that seems to be what white people do. What berserk weirdness will be manifested then? They're probably quite keen to find out.

IT'S A JUNGLE OUT THERE!

You know, I miss the stupendous wall of dildoes that one of the places in North Beach used to feature. It was an eye-opening monument to the hunger of some people. But for both the bookseller and myself the only real reason to visit the palace of pink rubber was to converse with the likable Russian refugee who worked there most days, who was, with an impressive academic background, quite "overqualified" for the job. But didn't mind, as it exposed him to interesting people with most of the time just one thing on their mind.

The bookseller and I went there because we were local.
The bookstore was just down the block.
And the conversation was good.


Which cannot be said so much for the beer place or the karaoke bar, because it's usually too loud. But they're interesting. While at the first we observed two very charming young ladies wandering around outside with an extra large pizza, who passed by again, and the only thing that I can think of is that they were looking for conversational partners who relished peppers and anchovies. Or perhaps a likely looking night spot to snarf down the dinner of champions, not too crowded, but gay and bright without loud music. And maybe nice gentlemanly men. Personally, I think that damsels wandering about with pizza is delightful.
So I hope they decide to have pizza every week.
Pizza is good. Brainfood.


And, speaking of such things, there were several folks at the karaoke joint who will remain quite safe during the zombie apocalypse. A disappointing eventuality.

The bus back across the hill reeked strongly of eggs.
Not nearly as attractive a fragrance.
Mmmm, pizza!



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