THE SPENT DAY

There is a thumping in this neighborhood; somebody is celebrating their gay pride with mindless techo-beats. They're probably doing it indoors, nearby, because it's densely foggy outside, with a chill wind. The temperature is probably around fifty three degrees Fahrenheit. Even if they're dancing, it's cold. When I returned home the hill line heading south toward the bridge, the structure itself, and the entire Presidio area, were fogged-in. I didn't admire it that much because my right leg was throbbing and twitching, but it was never-the-less beautiful. My legs are sightless, and have minds of their own.
Distinctly nasty minds. Venomous.
Especially the right one.


That's two-and-a-half hours after I take the amlodipine besylate. Which I time precisely so. That way I'm still a fairly pleasant sweet-tempered old coot when I leave work, and right when the bus heads into downtown Sausalito, I start turning into a pumpkin.

By around nine o'clock, nine fifteen, I'm human again.
Partly because of a cup of coffee.

Might be time for another pipeful.

Late afternoon Joe came in. He has two pipes he recently acquired: a rather nice Dunhill shellbriar apple, and a big full bent Sasieni ruff-root, probably pretransition. He, and Timothy O. who likes short Fuente cigars, were bits of brightness in an otherwise unremarkable day. There's just something exceptionally nice about thoughtful fellow smokers with keen minds and intelligent conversation. Which is something the old rightwing fratboys in the backroom lack entirely. Given that Burrito Man insisted on having the soccer match between Canada and Guatemala on the boob and most of them had no clue what was taking place before their eyes, they didn't know what to say. They went ahead and said it badly anyway.

Having other things to occupy my time, I didn't watch the game. Which did not interest me in the slightest. But I still heard plenty of stupid comments and gut-wrenchingly crude outbursts. I should point out that they're at that stage when simply dealing with a full bladder might take more than five minutes (Jeff), during which they will mumble and cuss.

So sometimes I hear "language" both from the backroom, AND the toilet.


The other day, hoping to cancel the bad vibes originating with the Irishman -- a remarkably rightwing troglodyte -- I found an Erse-Gaelic version of the Internationale on youtube. Bad move. It sounded like a bloody funeral dirge. I thought those people were supposed to be happy drunks, idiots, thugs, and revolutionaries. I was severely let down.

The Cantonese version sounds like they would happily punch you in the gut.
Much better. Absolutely.



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