TACITURN GRUMBLING

It went below fifty degrees Fahrenheit during the night. Absolutely horrid. I know that I seem obsessive about this, especially compared to the situation in the rest of the world, where the weather is far worse. Africa and Amsterdam, for instance, where the streets are covered in snow, public transit is faltering, and children are starving. Thirty degrees Fahrenheit. Two good friends who moved there to get away from Trump's Americans and because they love Surinamese music though they don't know it yet, now have a lovely view of grachten and tall canalhouses underneath frigid blankets. Also, they've got the flu. Their boys have the run of the house, mom and dad aren't leaving the bed, but spend the whole day sniffling, hacking, and wheezing. Which I can assure you is the epitome of Amsterdammishness.

Here, because it's San Francisco, we don't need to do that. We manfully stride through frigid conditions hovering around fifty Fahrenheit with occasional freezing rain that closes four lanes at Lucky Drive in Marin with joy in our hearts and smiles on our faces. Rictus.

Because rictus is a way of life.


Sometimes we have great optimism about the weather. Which at this time of year is entirely misplaced. What with being colder than dammit Cleveland. For which I blame Republicans.

For the first pipe smoked today, after a strong cup of Java, one needed an A-shirt, a T-shirt, a plaid shirt, a heavy sweater-like garment, and a coat originally purchased for Canadian winter conditions. Plus two layers of sock. And pants, of course.

As well as a stalwart and resolute character.

Mild insanity.

This morning I strolled past the glue works on top of Nob Hill where the orphans labour, past the municipal poor house and the shelter for indigent migrants from the interior, and froze my wobbly parts off while enjoying some fine Virginia flake in my briar. Because my apartment mate is a complete non-smoker. If I weren't such a considerate man, I should be in the teevee room underneath my pile of leaves, all warm and toasty.

But that will be the second smoke of the day. After she has gone off to work, I've shut her bedroom door, opened a window or two for ventilation, and there's either a second cup of coffee or perhaps a spot if tea.


In Amsterdam it will get even colder than it presently is. The weather reports are end-of-times in their severity. Far fewer bicyclists on the roads, even more phlegmatic muttering about the temperatures, and because they're mostly Dutch over there, more cups of coffee and fried hot snacks. My friends who have moved over there are probably not yet fully accustomed to grease bombs as a survival strategy. They may even be sticking to a restrained American coffee schedule, not realizing that being wired to the tits makes everything better.

The Dutch, by the way, are not into frothy overly sweet American style coffee drinks with zero fat dairy, syrup, and sprinkles. Small shot of high octane with a tiny cookie on the edge of the saucer, and a ryo ciggie made with dark shag tobacco (a reminder of the days of colonial exploitation), in an oud bruin café that smells of damp clothing and various fumes.

The word for mildew, in Dutch, is 'gezellig'.
It's a national characteristic.
Like snert.



I think I need to stress again that I am a considerate man.




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