THAT KIND OF EVENING

While waiting for the bookseller I was treated to a crazy person talking to himself about his girlfriend whom he had made into a pornostar, as well the gesticulating fellow, and the cretin mumbling, who was looking for his beverage which he had "just put there, and now it's gone". His muttering made clear that there had been several hours in between then and now, and that there were different newspaper racks than before, and the stop light had suddenly turned orange at that time which is why he put his drink down, which was the right thing to do.

As you've probably guessed, I am very good at not talking to people.
Although on Sunday I did respond to an eccentric who spoke.


"I just made a big coin for the Mexican embassy and left it at the gas station!"


I reassured him that it would probably all work out okay. Whereupon he left.

Living in San Francisco, I normally don't get into conversations with some people. That's a skill everyone learns here. My friend the bookseller told me that one of the customers, the woman who shouts about how damned Buddhists are killing all these people, had been quite distraught because "someone stole your elevator!" They don't have an elevator. They haven't had one for donkeys years. It never did go to the top. He told her that he'd file a report or something, and shooed her out. That's why he was late. It was one of those days.

Despite the cold wind there were numerous people out. The beer place looked like a war zone, someone was massacring La Bamba at the karaoke place to great acclaim (couldn't sing worth a damn, but his friends were drunk). The alternative place to which we went was, mercifully, quiet. Because the person tending bar does not speak Chinese, it attracts mostly American-born Cantos. Pretend, if you will, that the bookseller and myself are such.
He's of Italian derivation, I'm a Dutch American, but never mind.

The function of pipe-smoking Dutchmen is to confound your algorithms. That's why we exist.

Shortly after we got our drinks two gentlemen speaking some country dialect from lord knows where entered, and asked the bar person "ni swo tsong wen ma?" She told them she didn't, and I helpfully informed them that I could speak Cantonese. They left, discombobulated.

I'm fairly certain their dialect was Cantonese. Of some sort. But maybe from so far into turnip territory that the farm trucks are still stuck in the mud there. Far less intelligible than Toisan.

Still, the words beer ('peh-jau') and Remy ('le-mi') would have been understood.
They're comprehensible no matter how badly you mangle them.
Worst comes to worst, gesticulate!
Mime drink.


We have to deal with tourists from the rest of the country and the outside world all the time here in SF, we'll understand you if you make an effort. Really, I promise.


Just don't mutter, mumble cretinously, or act crazy.
And please, don't sing karaoke at us.


While we were at the bus stop a pick-up truck passed by blaring some tune from either The Beverly Hillbillies or Petticoat Junction. Possibly the Andy Griffith Show.
I'm sure it was meant ironically.


Yee haw.



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