OKAY CLETUS, GET OUT OF MY HEAD!

A dream involving smoked ham, garlic and herb roast chicken sliced thick, and a creamy cheese, on chiabatta bread, two half sandwiches. And a blonde person on the brancard behind me. Being whisked to the emergency room. She had asked to have the sandwich cut in half so it would be much easier to manage while she drove, and when she bit into a whole peppercorn, a brick wall suddenly swerved into her lane. Just before she passed out she had called the design scheme inside the ambulance perfectly "horrid". I had never thought about it in those terms, dear. Clean (sterile) and functional.

Snob.

The juices from the sandwich had throughly drenched her front. She smelled wonderful. Unfortunately the highway officer who responded to the accident had seized the other half of the sandwich as evidence. I would have to see his report to find out where she got it.

Yes, lunch yesterday was unpleasant. A toasted breakfast muffin, unwrapped and bunged into the microwave at three o'clock. The local convenience store seems to be on its last legs as far as meals are concerned, because all the illegals who do the stuff that Marinites won't pay enough for white people to do seem to be staying home or out of the public eye. Soon they'll have to hire poor white trash from places like Alabama or Tennessee, and the language problem will become acute. Or the food will. Insta-grits and red-eye.

Instead of crates of Corona, they'll have to stock Possum's Hoppy.
A fine Southern Ale. Cans. Cheaper by the dozen.
Free toy in each crate.

A vision of pale pallid backs sweating in the noonday sun, in the cottonfields which will replace the salt flats at the edge of the bay, fills my mind's eye. All the leaf blowers and chainsaws left by the Mexicans at full blast. The Salesforce Tower (affectionately know as 'the buttplug building' by the locals) is distantly visible, looming over the city. It can be seen from much of Southern Marin. It's why people there seldom go to San Francisco. They fear the place. Besides the needles, crazy people, and foreigners. A buttplug everywhere!
Those darn liberals have completely ruined San Francisco!

Dammit, I can't stop thinking about that sandwich.

My apartment mate bought pizza twice during the long weekend, plenty for both of us each time. The first one was a New York worthy thin crust slighty greasy exemplar, of which there is still one slice left for breakfast, the second was something that caught her eye while she was shopping at Trader Joe's. Which is all gone now. I had some of that for dinner on Saturday. I'm pizza'ed out.

Instead of the canciones, corridos, and brassy banda sounds which dominate after the hour for leafblowing ends, we'll start hearing passionately wailing airs about pick-up trucks, kids in the yard, and Jesus. Poor suffering Jesus. Moonshine. Gluten-free Jesus. Whiskey. Jesus in the plate of grits. Jesus going down the dirt road at ninety miles per hour low on gas. With a Jesus license plate, oh Jesus.


I don't think the Punjabis running convenience stores are ready for that.
I know I'm not.



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