TSUNAMI OF CUTE

On the bus a woman indicated very sincerely that I should sit down, having observed my cane. Which is far less for support, but much more for savagely clobbering nasties in a dark alley should the occasion call for it. Underneath the white hairs and wrinkles, and the sometimes wanky legs, I am still twenty or thirty years younger than I actually am.
Which I shall have to point out to my doctor later in the month.

She had Hello Kitty shoes and a Hello Kitty purse.

I myself own a Hello Kitty backpack, which is still in perfect working order, but which I hardly ever use anymore, as when I originally bought it it was just perfect for taking to bars with my pipes and tobacco in it. It discouraged people who were unable to grasp the gestalt from bothering me, and if heaven forbid I forgot it, someone would be sure to yell "hey mister you forgot your granddaughter's backpack!" because they didn't want it near them.

Besides, what do you think when you see a middle-aged dude with a Hello Kitty backpack?

1) Aw, he has a granddaughter!
2) He's good with kiddies and little animals!
3) He's seriously unbalanced, and might have a Luger in there.
4) The previous owner's head is inside.

But you don't want to find out.

Naturally I did not say anything about her habiliments. I respect the concept. It says that underneath her adult demeanor she is still a child at heart, with unmodulated moments and a streak of insanity, even if you can rely upon her to analize the data from ten months of core sample collecting across the Nefud and pinpont where it might be worthwhile to sink an exploratory hole. Plus watch out for savage tribes, they'll cut off your scrotum and hang it from the longhouse rafters as a trophy that brings good juju to the fields.

That girlish smile? Either a sweet personality radiating goodwill, or mental instability that will burn down a city block. Darn it, could be either. This is a public bus in San Francisco.


My current backpack on working days for pipes, tobacco, and an imaginary fully loaded hand gun, radiates stressed-out and much set upon wild furry animal with sharp teeth, who gets blotto every week at a karaoke joint and sings death metal very badly.

I don't drink anymore, and no one wants to hear me sing.


Still. Don't mess with me.



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