AN INDEPENDENT MINDED RACCOON

Adelbrecht was QUITE displeased. Things should NOT be this way! Ever! Didn't anybody respect the needs of raccoons? He grumbled as he put back the trash-can lid, and wandered off, kicking the banana peels out of the way. Life used to be so much better!


Years ago he had happily lived behind the walls of Sherlock's Haven down on Battery Street, where reasonably prosperous business-men had gathered most afternoons to smoke high quality cigars and chat. In the ensuing haze, nobody noticed that one of their company was short and furry. As long as he acted calm and rational, and had opinions that were well-founded, it did not matter that he was a raccoon on a high chair.
Those were the days! Good times, babies.

The only one who knew who and what he actually was, was the owner. Who, in addition to being a connoisseur and expert on all matters related to tobacco, knew the fish trade in New York inside and out. It was good to talk about seafood after hours, before one of them went home and the other retreated to the space behind the boards.

A good man. A good place. Adelbrecht kept away the smaller vermin and frightened off the anti-tobacco activists; they usually screamed when they saw him, and either fainted or started exclaiming loudly 'stunts your growth', 'makes you grow fur', and 'big bags under the eyes and a haunted visage'. He preferred it when they simply passed out in fright, as otherwise they just wouldn't shut up. He was the perfect height for his body type, his fur was entirely natural plus many of the finest naked people had fur, and those weren't bags but shade-appropriate dark streaks that softened the glare, precisely like a football player.

You wouldn't call a football player ugly, would you?

Well then!


When the old gentleman retired, he sold the store to a family of space aliens. None of the new owners knew anything about anything, they kept talking about dietary supplements, and the regular customers bailed out for Grant's on Market Street. Reluctantly, Adelbrecht followed them.
At Grant's he found the lodgings less agreeable, and there was a beauty academy two floors above filled with squealing wannabe blondes.
Who objected fiercely to the smell of tobacco.

The ladies of the beauty trade held their perfect noses high in the air as they passed, and consequently did not notice that he was a raccoon. He would've looked up their skirts if they hadn't been so unappealing. Even getting their attention with a huge cloud of Nicaraguan exhaust fumes wasn't worth it.
Very unpleasant creatures, so bloody intolerant!
Snooty stupidity is not attractive.
It's like rotten fish.

Grant's lost their lease back in 2012. He presumed it was because of one temper tantrum too many, but he didn't bother investigating the details. Before the doors closed for the final time, he had already moved three blocks away and evicted the clan of crack-addicted possums underneath the MacDonalds on Pine Street, just a few doors down from a cigar bar that had a fine selection of Scotch, as well as several excellent stogies.
It would be the perfect place! Bar owners are a generous bunch.
And one glass of singlemalt was huge! It lasted for hours!
Raccoons, as you know, are very temperate drinkers.
He could dawdle all night on one Bunnahabhain.

When the MacDonalds also closed down, that hadn't been a problem.
He simply moved into the basement underneath the cigar bar, which they shared with one of the restaurants in Belden Alley. It always reeked of salmon there, and both the bar and the restaurant didn't question him.
By that time they assumed that he belonged.
He looked and smelled familiar.


The problem, as it turned out, was the bachelor parties. Honestly, there is something fundamentally flawed with the idea of introducing a soon to be married man to all the subtle pleasures he is foolishly giving up.

Over the next few years several such pilgrims started coming regularly, to drown their disappointment at having married beauty academy graduates with big breasts and small brains, instead of the mousy librarians with glasses, dark dark hair, and enormous sparkling intellects.
At the cigar bar they found a welcoming audience.

Actually, it was a far from welcoming audience, but being too dumb to have noticed that their handbag obsessed bottle-blonde wives-to-be with the fake tits lacked an iota of sense (and had the personalities of iguanas to boot), they just didn't read that "oh really, do tell" actually means "piss off you sad excuse for a man" when delivered in a snarky growl.
Too dim, too self-absorbed, too brutish.
A dreary and coarse crowd.
Dunderheads.

Ex-bachelors lamenting their own misspending of youth and their wives' misspending of money were an incredibly boring bunch of people.
Even if they hadn't been tied to superficial dingbats, the brilliant librarian-types would have shunned them. Dull, especially when not suffering.

Junior stockbrokers and programmers should NOT have existential crises. They don't have the intelligence or soul for such things. The poor dears can barely even think! The Good Lord help us when they try to use words of two syllables.
Most brands of cigars have complicated names; more than two syllables.
Same goes for many singlemalts.

"I take one of those Eye-lessons annagluss Glem Fickle!"

An Illusione cigar, and Glenfiddich. An exciting combination of criolla and corojo, with a rosado wrapper, which lends a creamy finishing touch to what will be a most enjoyable smoking experience. Plus a superlative Speyside eighteen year old, aged in carefully selected casks; it has a fruitiness, and hints of herbs. Altogether a superior product.

Both of these fine things are wasted on mere wastrels.

Even more if they're Marketing types!


The week that Oracle held its big dog and pony show was horrendous. Both the bar where he liked to perch on the counter, and the restaurants in Belden Alley nearby, had been crowded with geeks and oafs, and the one time he managed to find a seat out of the way of wingtips and Italian shoes, he had been cornered by a self-made-miserable specimen who should have remained unmarried, a borderline weepy dude.
Who was on his fifth drink, and third cigar.

The man kept him prisoner with his tongue far too long. He didn't escape till long after eleven o'clock, when the ex-bachelor slid to the floor, slack and insensate, drenched in sweat.

As he scurried over the limp body, he wondered if there would be any food left at that place that did fabulous mussels. Or just maybe he could get the Fresh Malpeck Oysters with Italian Mignonette & Horseradish. Or the Monkfish Braised with Mushrooms & Cherry Tomatoes!
Halibut? Sea Food Canneloni? Seared Scallops?
Crab Claws with Spicy Cream!

Nope. No such luck. The eateries that weren't closed were still filled with Oraculists and sundry other industry types from out of town, and some of the waitstaff were clearly at their wits end. The likelihood that getting a table would require an hour wait or longer, and that then he'd finally only find a high chair near the bathrooms, made him decide to fall back on the familiar habit of his kind: raiding garbage cans for fresh bread and cheesy bits. It was desperation!

Sourdough or Ciabatta, and California fromage!

And perhaps untouched anchovies.

From a salad.

He had seen some other ex-bachelors at the restaurant that did 'basket o bacon', and the mussel place looked like a typhoon had hit it.
It is sad when dining resembles trench warfare.
No hope here. Garbage it is!

It wasn't. Distinctly not. The Oracle Openworld attendees dined on company expense accounts, and devoured every last morsel.

The garbage cans that normally smelled so rich and fecund were devoid of sustenance. Perhaps the restaurants had simply "harvested" whatever they could to put in front of the tens of thousands of Oracle and Java users, experts, and developers, in sheer desperation at the crowds.



Two hours later, Adelbrecht was having a last cigar, up in Huntington Park on Nob Hill, with naught but high-priced callgirls for company. Despite his stylish fur coat, they did not accost him. Many were too exhausted from the mob of Openworlders to even notice a short fuzzy gentleman, and the fact that his cigar was a Cohiba Siglo VI (hecho totalmente a mano en Habana, Cuba - quite a nice illegal smoke, and hard to find) made no impression on them whatsoever.
They probably wouldn't have cared if he smoked a Henry Clay.
He suspected them of dye jobs and silicone.
As well as horrible taste.

He had eaten at the hamburger joint on Broadway, the same one that Anthony Bourdain liked. Good enough, but some yutz had hogged the bottle of Sriracha. He would have liked to have an entire puddle of it on a second plate to dip the bits of burger patty and bun separately into.
Rip-rip, dab dab dab, chomp. Very fastidious!
A good hamburger always tastes better if dis-assembled into its constituent parts, then carefully torn to paw-size pieces.
That is the sensible way to eat it.
Raccoon style.


Huntington Park at the top of Nob Hill is a desolate place. During hot weather, the soothing fog doesn't roll in to blanket everything in a layer of gentle grey, and the smell of dog poo and urine is almost overwhelming. Locals walk their chihuahuas and pomeranians there, and sneakily look around before deciding not to pick up after Fluffy, hah!
Adelbrecht utterly despised them
Small dogs are incredibly nasty little brutes.
He'd like to dropkick one down California Street.
Or bounce it like a basket ball before tossing it through a hoop.


He imagined how ironic it would be if he were cited for animal abuse.

"That poodle was a 'toy'! Surely it's called that for a reason?!?"

Nah, the judge wouldn't buy it. The fine would bite into his cigar funds, big time. Not worth it.

Besides, the icky little creatures weren't the problem, their owners were. What else could you expect of people who proudly boasted that their beauty academy education had landed them a rich husbandish thing, or the middle-aged captains of industry who would buy nasty little dwarf-canine turd factories for their big-breasted blonde trophies?

Some of the Fluffies were actually rather decent, despite having all the brains of a bag of hammers. When appearance doesn't work in your favour, it is good to have tonnes of personality!
Oh, and a waggy tail.


San Francisco was no longer a fit city for a single raccoon. He wondered what it would be like to find a mate. A small dark-haired furball with a sharp nose. Someone who possessed the intellect and peculiar interests of a brilliant librarian, but shared the same bad habits as himself.

Cigars. Whisky. Seafood.
And snarky wit.

Maybe he should light up another cigar.
While he toyed with the concept.

Was the bar still open?


He wandered off, a small indistinct fuzzy shadow in a hot dark night.
A faint trail of fragrant leaves hinted at his progress.
Somewhere a mini dog howled.
Horrid chihuahua.





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YOUR BACKYARD IS EMPTY, AND POSSIBLY YOUR HAMSTER DIED

Yesterday, sometime after lunch, an anonymous commenter wrote: "This post is quite likely the most degenerate thing that you have ever written."

High praise. I pride myself on literary degeneration.


The post in question dates from two years ago, and was about raccoons. Personally, I did not consider it degenerate at all, as it was no more than a slice of San Francisco backyard life. Very clean and pure.

But please, you be the judge.


TOFU!


There are far fewer raccoons in the north-eastern part of San Francisco than there used to be. It's been a while since I saw one in my neighborhood. The park on the hill beyond Van Ness no longer seems to house a thriving colony, and both Larkin and Hyde Streets are without a coonish presence, even at darkest night.

It's sad.


I think the damned tourists are eating them.




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MIDNIGHT SNACK

I missed the last bus, so I took a zig-zaggy way home. The direct route would have had me huffing up a steep slope, and there was plenty of time. So instead of heading directly up Sacramento or California Street, I wandered from Kearney Street to Grant Avenue, cut up to Waverly at Clay, then traversed Portola ("Old Chinatown Lane") from Washington to Jackson, crossed Stockton, and turned right into Trenton Street.

Right outside the eastern side of the Ping Yuen West housing project, there were two orbs at waist level.

[Sacramento Street: 唐人街 (or 沙加緬度街 past 美臣街). California Street: 加利福尼亞街. Kearney Street: 乾尼街. Grant Avenue: 都板街. Waverly: 天后廟街. Clay Street: 企李街. Portola Alley: 舊華埠巷. Washington Street: 華盛頓街. Jackson Street: 積臣街. Stockton Street: 市德頓街, Trenton Street: 登頓街. Ping Yuen West: 西平原.]

Two glowing orbs.

Curious.


浣熊!


I looked at the raccoon. The raccoon looked at me. I stepped back a few paces, and filled a pipe. The raccoon observed. I lit the pipe. The raccoon was alarmed at the flare, then calmed down when the flame died. Just in case the animal was still disconcerted, I took another step backward. The raccoon cautiously resumed wrestling with the lid of the refuse disposal unit, occasionally glancing over in my direction.

Don't worry, small furry person, I have a pipe! You can enjoy all of that yourself, there is no need to share. Honestly.
My oral fixation is satisfied.
Eat!

I have no idea what the creature found in there. But whatever it was, it smelled fecund. Rich, robust, and fruity. Rather like a good Virginia flake tobacco. Perhaps I should offer to share my smoke?

Fish heads; that accounts for the aroma of Perique.


There should be a late-night eatery in Chinatown, run by a Cantonese relative of Gandalf, so that a middle-aged Dutch American and a young raccoon might have a bite together.
Something with noodles.

See, you hold the chopsticks like so; use your first digit for leverage, because you do not actually have opposable thumbs, what with being a raccoon and all. That's just the way it is. Then angle your second and third digits against the pieces of bamboo, and with deft pinching motions you can lift the morsels to your mouth.

Have you ever had charsiu? I really think you'll like it.
Be cautious with the Sriracha hotsauce.
Unless you've had it before.
It's... peppy.

The raccoon would likely need at least three(!) telephone books on the seat to reach up to the table. But it would probably love the lights, and shiny surfaces. Along with the quietness, and the fact that Gandalf understands the existential hunger furry creatures feel.
As well as their liking for noodles.

After our snack, we'll share some tobacco.


The raccoon finished rooting around, came down from the garbage can and stared up at me for a few seconds, then turned around and slipped through the fencing into the courtyard of Ping Yuen.
I tapped out my pipe, and continued up Pacific.
Not now, but one of these days.
Noodles.



*浣熊 (woon hong): the wash bear.


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CHOICES WHICH YOU MUST MAKE

You have a choice of feeding Paris Hilton ice cream, or a raccoon. What do you do?
And it need not necessarily be Paris Hilton. It could be any equivalent female of the youthful blondish persuasion with a deficit of wit. There are a huge number of them to choose from, indeed, an almost infinite supply.
But the point is the ice cream. With whom, in this world, would you rather share ice cream?

May I politely suggest the raccoon?

Yes, if it were the yellow-haired humanoid, there would be an excellent chance that at some point the clothing comes off. And though the raccoon is already naked, she is covered with fur. Let us assume that it is a she. From a strictly nasty point of view the female biped is a more natural prospect of enticement. Arms and legs of acceptable proportion and dimension, as well as secondary characteristics which the human male is programmed to find "interesting". Entirely unlike the raccoon.

But the raccoon has a much sweeter personality.
She's far better company, you'll agree.

And, crucially, she won't belly-ache about the flavour of the frozen treat.
Or it's fat-content.

She'll merely sit there happily enjoying her small furry animal sized portion, occasionally looking up at you with admiration -- she knows you have no ulterior motive, you're just an all-round decent guy with a fondness for fuzzy critters and a surplus of ice cream -- whereas the bimbettish blonde will suspect you of any number of things. And with enough sugar in her system, might even act upon those suspicions, in an incredibly unsuitable way. Disrobing or blinking her lashes.

Conceivably even rubbing up against you in public.

Which, if a raccoon were to do it, illustrates that you have a likability and sensitivity towards small animals. If a blonde does it, especially one who is half my age, it suggests dubious personality issues.

I would rather be seen in public with a raccoon.
It's far less likely to raise questions.

Once the raccoon has recovered from her sugar high, she's likely to play with the locks on your cat-door, or figure out a cunning way to open the refrigerator. Or steal your wallet, because at some point in the future she'll want more ice cream and you may not be around. At the time.
Surely you would want her to have more ice cream?
She can't use your credit card; she doesn't look like you in the slightest, and the counter clerk would be incredibly suspicious. But if she handed over a big pile of cash, there wouldn't be any problems.
The raccoon feels certain that you will agree.
Logically she must have the money.
Crisp green dollar bills.
Ice cream!



I would seriously suggest taking her out to dim sum first, though. There's not a whole heck of a lot of nutrition in ice cream, and as the adult male it is your responsibility to ensure a proper diet. Raccoons love both dimsum and ice cream, but they're likely to load up on whatever is first offered.
It's a conditioned reflex, brought on by years of exposure to humans.
Apparently we're fickle, and amazingly flighty.
Can't be relied on for more food.
We have whims.

But they agree that we're far better company than Paris Hilton, or equivalent females of the young blondish persuasion. It's that deficit of wit.
An insurmountable obstacle if ever there was one.


Plus I'm an all-round decent guy, and there's a possibility of ice cream.



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SOMETHING FAMILIAR

She had never told her parents about the raccoon. Not because she was secretive, but because they might not understand; her parents did not like animals. And certainly not wild ones. They didn't even like kittens, if you can imagine that. She was glad her parents had found each other, as two people who hated kittens would have been lonely by themselves.

She called the raccoon "mr. Bang", because that was the sound of the screen when she first let him into the kitchen. The noise did not startle him, despite the sudden loudness, but she could tell he was intrigued. As well as a little disturbed by the fact that the handle was so high up. How would he get out? To put him at ease, she inserted an empty box between the door and the jamb. He rocognized its function, and relaxed.

He came in many times after that. She would do her homework at the kitchen table, having already prepped the door, and around twilight she almost always noticed a movement out of the corner of her eye. Mr. Bang had arrived. Shortly afterward his furry head and grey whiskers would pop up over the edge of the table as he settled into the other chair. She often explained the math problems to him, as putting them into words helped her understand.
He'd look at her really seriously while she did that, and nod his head.
Did he grasp what she was saying?
Well, perhaps he did. He looked very attentive and thoughtful when she talked. Raccoons don't speak English, though, so he couldn't respond. But she felt that he helped her, and he was good company.
Then he would eat some of the triscuits.

When she made herself a glass of warm milk at midnight, he would have some too. Afterwards he would wander over to the kitchen door, look back at her as if to say "good night, thank you for a lovely time", then let himself out. She locked the door and turned off the lights, and went up to bed. A while later she'd hear a cat yowling from a few gardens away, or the crash of a garbage can being overturned, and she knew that mr. Bang was doing raccoon stuff.
It was kind of like knowing an elderly Irishman. Stiff in a few joints, but still full of piss-and-vinegar. She wondered if he also smoked cheap stogies, like mr. Clancy who lived next door.


Over the years mr. Bang got greyer, and seemed to move a little slower. Raccoons don't live very long, and it was obvious that he was an old animal. She started buying apples and bananas for him -- not out of a sense of pity or charitableness, she simply wanted him to have his vitamins -- and he often curled up behind the water heater, instead of leaving to overturn garbage receptacles down the block. Her parents never discovered him when they came down for breakfast, as they were too busy chattering about stocks, bonds, and money management. After they had gone, he came out and sat at the kitchen table with her while she ate. She always put some of her toast and scrambled eggs on a little saucer for him at his seat, and he would eat the food very fastidiously. He never made a mess. All in all, a very neat fellow, and extremely even-tempered; quite the furry gentleman.
She'd set the kitchen door at a crack when she left.

Often there was evidence when she came back that he had explored the rest of the house during the day, but never anything out of order, and nothing missing. Sometimes her teddy bear would be propped up on her pillow, when she sort of remembered putting miss Flumps under the covers. Had she not done so?
Or had mr. Bang been visiting her room?
She rather suspected that he had, but she could not be sure.


The end came in the summer that she graduated from Junior High. He was very old and stiff now, but his eyes were as bright and friendly as ever. He moved with evident pain. So she fixed a box with a blanket for him, and put it between her bed and the dresser, where her parents wouldn't see it. He still ate apples and bananas, and she would cary the box into the kitchen every day so he could have some toast and scrambled eggs. Before she left she carried him back up to her room, and put miss Flumps in with him, to keep him company. He was usually dozing when she came back.
Later he would have a little warm milk and a bit of apple with her, before bedtime.

He passed away in his sleep one night in July. She cried when she saw him the next morning. That evening she buried him at the end of the yard under the rhododendron bush. Lovely purple flowers. He would like that.
She made the hole deep so that he wouldn't be disturbed.
Box, blanket, and miss Flumps for company.


Several years later she adopted a kitten; a striped tom that slept on her bed.
She named him Bang Junior. Because he helped her do her homework.
He looked at her really seriously when she talked.
A very attentive and thoughtful cat.



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SYMPATHY OF SORTS FOR THE SUBURBS

Mark in Pleasanton informs me that for several days earlier this month, the outside temperature at dawn has been twenty-eight degrees. It could have been somewhere else, I'm not entirely sure where he and his spouse live.

TWENTY EIGHT DEGREES!

He mentioned this after another person suggested I should take the opportunity to visit Holland again, now that I have a bit of time. I explained that they're having the opposite of a heat-wave in the Netherlands right now, and I dislike cold-weather intensely. Which is why I live in California.
Unfortunately, I live in the wrong part of California.
San Francisco approximates the Arctic.
With howling wolves.

Still. Twenty eight degrees. That's bitter. About the only thing you want to do when you pad downstairs in your fuzzy bathrobe and fluffy pink rabbit slippers is turn on the coffee, open the back door to let in the foxes and raccoons that are patiently waiting out there, tell them to raid the cat's supper dish and keep quiet while doing so, then shut the door again.

The cat has some weird friends. I swear one of them visited the chicken coop. No, not for food. For warmth. Nothing says winter comfort better than the sweaty press of hot-blooded panicky birds. A moving featherbed.
Pity it smells so bad.

Rolling in the snow at dawn gets most of the frowst off, but still.
Once you've done that you are chilled once more.

Dammit, when IS grumpus gonna open the kitchen door?
I'm freezing out here!


Later on you go into the living room to plonk at the computer, where you discover that the raccoons and foxes are now curled up on the couch, sleeping off their hangovers. They drool and mutter while they doze.
It's like a having a bunch of college kids over.
Live and lithe, with bushy tails.
And bad breath.

Maybe I shouldn't have put the Dominoes pizza in the cat dish. Nothing is worse than carnivore with stale anchovy coming out of its mouth.
Time to light up a pipe and chase those fishy blues away.
Yeah, a strong English blend. Germain & Son.
Latakia, Turkish, Virginia.
That good.

Dang, twenty eight degrees?!?

I'm staying in San Francisco.

Despite everyone with vile non-smoker breath, gibbering flocks of do-gooders, sincere intellectuals, undiscovered artists, and the feral vegans.

This pipe smoker ain't crazy.



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FEAR THE WEASEL, LOVE THE WEASEL!

Weasels are much maligned creatures.  Both in literature and popular culture, weasels are described as bloodthirsty, murderous, and harbingers of ill-omen.

What nonsense.
From Wikipedia: "They are small, active predators, long and slender..."

If I didn't already know that a mustelid was being described, I would assume that the author of that sentence was talking about the ideal woman.


LITHE-MINDED INDIVIDUALS

It will probably not surprise you to discover that I have always liked weasels. Much like I am fond of badgers, raccoons, and many other animals.
It's refreshing to see goal-driven intelligences at work, and the more a creature can upset the applecart or get away with murder, the more I tend to admire it.

That raccoon-proof garbage can is not really raccoon-proof, you know. And you've likely given him a challenge he cannot resist. If he had his druthers, he would prefer to dine at that little French bistro on Hyde Street, wearing a coat and tie, and generously tipping the waitstaff, especially after the roast duck and foie gras.....

But he seriously wants to see the expression on your face when you discover that the raccoon lock is busted, the coffee grounds have been thrown at your window, the banana peels festively festoon your brand-new Prius, and the chicken carcass which you should have used for soup stock is now in your letter box.

And your teenage daughter has run off with Mr. Raccoon.
He's clearly a very intelligent and witty fellow.
With a wickedness that's magnetic!

Just because they're furry doesn't mean they can't outfox you.


Even weasels. Especially weasels. Mr. Weasel wants your chickens, you are powerless to resist. Attempts to eradicate his kind as pests have merely resulted in the more intelligent ones contributing much more to the mustelian gene pool. At this point, they're qualified to run for congress.
In another few generations they'll be running the banks.
And collecting European art.
Surrender now.

"Small active predators, long and slender"

I cannot help but wonder what a dinner date with a young female weasel would be like.  Probably very exciting, from a food and company point of view. For one thing, she'd be keenly interested in meat. And seafood.
And tasty crustaceans.
For another, she would probably insist that we leave a very generous tip if the service was good, and burn the blasted place down if it wasn't.

Miss, why are you carrying a jerry-can instead of a Vuitton handbag?
Oh I see - it's the culturally accepted equivalent for your kind.

Weasels are small enough that they can sit ON the table. Instead of at it. Maybe she'd want the food to-go. Fois gras, roast duck, and fresh fresh chicken for a picnic. Crusty loaf, bottle of wine, tablecloth, and cutlery.
Indeed, a veritable feast!
Followed by cigarillos, and chucking garbage at the tourists.
Or raiding the fish-markets to liberate the lobster!
And reunite it with an old friend: mayonnaise!

I'll get you home by nine, sweetheart, 'cause I'm scared of your dad. He's still carrying a grudge from the Toad Hall incident. And he's a meanie.
As well as being my tax-accountant.


Somebody needs to write a story about nice weasels, showing them as the gallant, independent-minded, creative individuals that they are. Lovable and ferocious, and precisely the kind of people you want your children to know.

Well, except for the part where they stole the cutlery.
Might want to avoid mentioning that.
That was 'regrettable'.

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WORDS OF ENCOURAGEMENT; IN PRAISE OF FEMALE INDIVIDUALISM

Young lady, you chose wisely! You could have indeed decided that the most stylish accoutrement for a five year old was a Hello Kitty pursy. All pale pink and yellow and saccharine. But no! Against the blandishments of your peers you went for the personable stuffed raccoon.
An admirable decision!

While Hello Kitty says that you are fragile, soft-headed, and possibly incurably dumb, that fierce-looking stuffed raccoon indicates to the world that you are a woman to be reckoned with.
Steadfast, hard-nosed, and independent-minded.
A future doctor or engineer.

Especially the way you swing it gaily by its tail. "Don't bug me", you seem to say, "or I will clout you with a rabid beast!"
It whirls around in terrifyingly aggressive circles.
Possibly growling ominously.

I'm assuming that the stuffed raccoon is rabid. Guard-raccoons usually are.
Or maybe it keenly appreciates the roller-coaster-like motions.
Either way. There is a wide space around you.
You are a dangerous person.

Your two little sisters are blithely unconcerned and unaware.

If I had an older sister swinging a raccoon, I might worry.

The more so as I occasionally identify with raccoons and other sly night-time raiders of food-supplies. It's my deepset eyes over prominent cheekbones, you see. It gives my face a look twixt vulpine and procyonine.
Halfway foxy, halfway inquisitive backyard invader.
I tend to keep my fluffy tail out of sight.
Because of girls like you.
I'm petrified.


Anyway, stay away from Hello Kitty. That horrid feline voodoo-doll only leads to trouble. Bad grades, receding jaws, infantile squealing, plus ghastly taste in clothes, careers, friends, and reading matter.
There is naught, nothing at all, redeemable about Hello Kitty.
Hello Kitty appeals to terminally weak minds.
Wanna-be femmy halfwits.


Stick with the raccoon.




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THE NOODLY YUMMINESS!

He waited a long time at the increasingly crowded bus stop. Muni always took such a while. But it was still better than setting off uphill, as the moment you reached the crest, you could see that if you had just taken a few minutes more pause at the bottom, you would have caught a bus.

Finally a conveyance trundled into view. Along with a throng of others he swarmed on board. All the seats were taken, all the space in the aisles was packed. He found himself wedged between an elderly codger - who really SHOULD have been sitting - and two tykes of maybe five or six years of age. He didn't mind the tight squeeze, as he could always start biting people if it became too much.
But he had self control. Exemplary self-control.
It was that which kept him out of trouble.


He observed the children with interest. Both of them, the boy as well as the girl, had Hello Kitty backpacks. The boy was pleasingly round-headed, the little girl had what looked like the thickest, softest, featheriest hair in a big bushy tail. It was very lovely. He felt that he was entitled to admire tails. His own was not quite so bouncy, and he kept it tucked under his trenchcoat so that no one would step on it.

The girl observed him with equal interest. It was disconcerting, as he preferred not to be noticed very much. She stared intently, and he couldn't quite meet her gaze. What was she looking at?
Was she admiring his pelt? Did she want to skin him for a warm coat, or just run her hot little human hands through his soft, soft chest fur?
He really wouldn't mind the latter. It was paler than on the back and sides, where the banding started, and he liked being rubbed there, or even skritched under his chin. Little children could sometimes be so innocently affectionate to raccoons.


He was looking forward to getting to Stockton Street. Soon he would be wandering around, drinking in the sights and smells, and looking for a good place to have noodles. Wheat flour maybe, with bits of roast pork and chopped scallion. Or a bowl of egg noodles in soup, with tangy shreds of pickled vegetable and slivers of animal protein. Too hot to eat immediately, but he'd grab some ice cubes from the glass of water to cool down the broth. Fried thick rice stick, perhaps. With a dash of soy sauce and chili it would be delicious! His whiskers quivered with anticipation, and he vibrated with excitement.
A big blonde woman whose leg he inadvertently touched when the bus jostled interrupted her whiny cell-phone monologue to glare at him disapprovingly. Clearly she felt that this was her personal ride, and being surrounded by other individuals was too much. Especially wild animals!
She didn't say anything, though. If she had, he would've scratched her.

Finally the bus crossed Stockton, and stopped opposite the herb and dried seafood emporium with the green awning. Massively the vehicle's contents erupted onto the street, a swarm of people descending through both doors, nearly stampeding on their way out. Possibly they too were upset at the blonde baggage and her drearily repetitive telephonic yacking, couldn't wait to get away from the bitch.

He held back a bit, waiting for the most desperate individuals to stampede out first. Didn't want anyone stepping on him. The two little children got off at the same time. As they headed down Clay Street with their mom, the little girl looked back at him.
She had beautiful eyes, gentle and alert.
He felt certain he would see her again.
She might be taller than him by then.

Ten minutes later he was happily scarfing down a big, BIG plate of fat fried rice stick noodles with scallion, extra ginger, and juicy slivers of beef. Yes, a dash of soy sauce and a glop of chili paste for added flavour. Dang this was good! This was worth the wait! This, in all ways, represented a slice of life worth living!
He beckoned the waitress over and ordered a big glass of tea with lots of condensed milk and tapioca pearls over ice, and happily twiddled his clawed toes while continuing his assault on the plate of chow fun. He liked crowded bustling places like this.
Mmmmm, ginger!

Life was good. Life was exceedingly good indeed.
Cities were fine places for raccoons.


He'd wander around a bit after eating, and scare some of the tourists.
Then he'd climb up the hill at twilight, and head home.
Perhaps overturning a garbage can on the way.
Traditional and expected of folks like him.
Besides, it startled the local cats.

Fun stuff, indeed.
Life is a tail.




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BACK AWAY FROM THE CRUNCHY SNACKS!

A discussion with a friend recently about raccoons in his neighborhood revealed that he is paranoid about those creatures. He swears that they wait underneath cars for him to come stumbling home drunk at night, whereupon (so they intend) they will leap out and steal his wallet, as well as that brown paper bag filled with crispy fish tacos he was planning to eat for breakfast.

So far they haven't succeeded, but it's only a matter of time.
One of these days he'll be drunk again.
Then they'll strike.

Tacos!

As a pre-emptive manoeuvre, he has been buying the loyalty of the feral neighborhood cats by putting out food for them during daylight hours, when there are no raccoons about. The cats have gratefully tucked in, and have become really fond him.
His loyal cat army, feline mercenaries.

Unfortunately raccoons wipe the floor with cats. He had not realized that.  One raccoon can whup any number of pussies single handedly. Single pawedly.  Paws.
There are several raccoons. Only three cats.
The cats don't even organize.
He's totally hosed.
His cat legions are no match for the furry savages.
He feels like a Roman emperor, whose borders are besieged by the barbarians.

Vandals! Goths! Persians!


"They're brutalizing my subjects!"


In his mind, it's all about civilization versus the savage Hunnish hordes.
The hordes are enslaving the cats. His cats! It's personal now!
That, and the fact that he's too scared to buy tacos.

I've told him to lock his doors and hide under the bed.
That's the only advice that I have.
I'm rooting for him.
Sort of.


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ANIMAL FEEDING

Apparently we have a three day weekend. I had assumed that our office would be open on Monday, despite the banks being closed for the holiday, but I've been informed otherwise.
This presents a problem: what am I going to do?

In the past it would have so easy. At least one full day of snacking, dozing, and nibbling.
Dinner at a restaurant, and perhaps even a trip out of town.
But I do not have anyone with whom to do this now.

One of my friends will be heading down to Monterrey with his new blonde squeezieboo, where the two of them will be doing exactly that.
Snacking, dozing, nibbling, and eating at restaurants.
In between visiting an aquarium to look at fish.
And spending all day out in the sun.

It sounds utterly wonderful.
I hope they have a good time.


I shall probably look for something new to eat in Chinatown for lunch, then wander down to the office smoking my pipe, to browse the internet till evening, reading and drinking tea.
There are no flowers in my life, and there is nothing to smell.

If I were a raccoon, it would be quite different. Yes, raccoons also smoke pipes and drink tea. Don't argue. They do. It's a fact.
Then at night they head over to the dead end street on Russian Hill, where they sit on the wall overlooking the bay, the lights of the city spread out below them, and gaze out at the lovely view, while holding furry paws.
Or perhaps having a delicious fish dinner.

The great advantage of being covered with fur is sheer huggability. That, of course, is why everyone loves raccoons. Even when they reek of pipe-tobacco. As is often the case.
"Oh, that's just the way animals smell, don't mind that!"
Pet, pet, pet. Pet, pet, pet.
"And just look at those soulful eyes, so very very loveable!"
Even more pet, pet, pet.
Pet, pet, pet.

Nobody has ever said that I looked loveable while I smoked my pipe in a thoughtful manner or cleverly lifted a forkful of fish to my mouth.
I do think I'm actually quite presentable at those times.
Exactly the type of person you'd want to be with.
But unfortunately I lack fur and a fuzzy tail.
As you know, that detracts immensely.

Non-furry pipe-smokers just aren't very popular. We rarely figure in illustrated children's books, Narnia, or animated films, despite my soulful eyes.

Betcha my friend and his blonde companion will look at whatever is housed at the aquarium in Monterrey and think "I wonder how it tastes". A veritable smorgasbord of fabulous fresh seafood options. Just crack the tank.
Shark steak. Orange Roughy Parmesan. Crispy Fried Fish Sandwich.
Calamares Fritos. Sand Dabs Alfredo. Étouffée.
Ragoût de fruits de mer.

The closest I'll come to that is observing the wriggling fishy things, fresh shrimp, and live lobsters in tanks at stores along Stockton Street.
Then heading over to office to read all about food online.
Oysters Rockefeller, Mussels a la Mariniere.
Fried squidlibits with zesty dip.
Crevettes en rémoulade.

A pity I can't smoke my pipe indoors anymore.
One has to go outside to light up nowadays.
Evening winds are always cold downtown.
That's why fur would come in handy.
And, conceivably, inspire hugs.

"Just look at those soulful eyes! He clearly wants some seafood!"

Pet, pet, pet.
Charming.


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RACCOONS, TOBACCO, AND VIETNAMESE COFFEE

There’s a direct correlation between porches and raccoon populations.
I am convinced of this. The reason being that anyone enjoying a nice bit of sunlight out on their back porch would naturally put out some snacks for the local wildlife, especially personable creatures such as raccoons.
Raccoons are far more likeable than marmots, chipmunks, squirrels, and possums.
The proof of my contention is the Deep South.
It’s totally filled with porches.
Tons! of raccoons.

Quod erat demonstrandum.

All of this came to me because I purchased a Vietnamese sandwich for lunch. And nothing approaches perfection more than a Vietnamese drip-coffee over ice afterwards.

[Bánh mì thịt nguội. I would have liked a Bánh mì xíu mại, or a bánh mì kẹp thịt ga. But those weren't an option. Nor was the coffee.]

You have to wait for the coffee to finish dripping through the filter device, which may take a while. Which is why they aren't suitable for early mornings, when you need that cup of jazz immediately, and want it warm in any case. But from around ten o'clock onwards till early evening, it is ideal.
Savouring the sandwich fills the dripping time.

And what better with a nice cold glass of coffee - condensed milk - ice cubes, than a pipefull of tobacco?

Except that this is San Francisco, and you have to smoke outside.

Which requires a porch.

I'm fairly certain raccoons would also appreciate Vietnamese drip-coffee. And unlike marmots, chipmunks, squirrels, and possums, raccoons are thoughtful creatures, who will take time to enjoy their food and drink.
Those other creatures simply scarf things down in a state of nervous tension, which causes acid indigestion and high-blood pressure. No wonder they're miserable and flighty. Their little tummies are upset, and they twitch.
There's no way they would be good company while I'm smoking a pipe.
Raccoons also have hands. Ergo they are much neater.
No mess, no crumbs, no spilled coffee.

Besides, I would rather not imagine a squirrel (or a marmot, or a chipmunk) wired on caffeine. Panic, tantrums, and jumping up and down. Immediately followed by smashing the glass and maniacal screaming. Or evil titters.
Inevitably, the cops would be called because the little bastard was creating a public disturbance and upsetting the neighbors. "Evil man, getting the furballs all wired to the tits - I told you he would lower property values by moving in!" Huh!
Whereas the raccoon might even want a smoke to go along with his or her beverage.
Perhaps a small cigarillo. No problem.

See? Raccoons, tobacco, and Vietnamese coffee.
They're logically connected.



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CONSIDERATION FOR FELLOW SAN FRANCISCANS

Raccoons are known for their sensitive hands, which feel and relate to objects with keen intelligence. For the raccoon, the sense of touch is as important as eye-sight, and an ability to smell things. This explains both their eating habits, and their talent for picking locks.
Makes you wonder why you don't see raccoons eating noodles more often.
If anyone can master chopsticks, would it not be them?
Maybe they just eat such foods in private.
Home cooked style.


PROTO-ALGONQUIN "ARAGKUNEM": ONE WHO RUBS, SCRUBS, AND HOLDS WITH HIS HANDS.

No, I did not eat noodles today. But if I had, I would've probably looked for a raccoon to share them with. Given how hot the soup comes to the table, we would've had to ask for extra ice, to cool the food down so that my small guest would not burn his or her paws and mouth.
I suspect raccoons do not prepare cooked food much. If they did, there might be more inexplicable fires in the city. Despite their remarkable dexterity, they lack opposable thumbs. Lit matches would go flying, and their kitchen activities could be a public hazard.  Best not boil any water, and forget about frying too.
They're all thumbs, they realize this. And I think that's why you so rarely see them in noodle shops.
Embarrassment, plus envy and hurt pride. Chopsticks are probably problems too.
It's okay, my furry friend, you can use a fork, just like white folks.
More ice? Careful, it's hot.

FYI:  饂飩("烏冬")麵 can be consumed cold. Boiled tender, rinsed in cold water to room temperature. And like 粗麵, they're thick enough that you could easily eat them with your paws.
Excellent with char-grilled pork and a little soy sauce.
Plus crunchy lettuce and cilantro.

Warm weather is raccoon time, time for spring cleaning. Preparing for the litter due at the end of May. Toss out the old bedding and steal more from those generous humans who live nearby.
Surely that must be why those hairless bipeds left their windows open?
Mm, these sheets smell fresh and clean! It's lavender!
And stay away from those; mothballs!

If you're going to use the stove or the ice box, better have a buddy system going on.
Those doors tend to swing closed suddenly, you wouldn't like to get stuck.
You might want to jam a broom in the refrigerator just in case.
Just be quiet while raiding, and don't leave a mess.
Well, less mess than the resident humans.
Put your dirty dishes in the sink.
And turn the coffee off.

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THE NIGHT VISITOR

There were three of us in the parking lot after the tobacco store closed.
Three pairs of spectacles. Three pipes. And about fifteen different subjects that we were discussing.
But I remember two things in particular.

One of them was Indian style pickles.


ACHAR

Indian pickles are made with salt and oil. The simplest pickles are the ones made from sour citrus or green mango, and you may have tried them at one point. If it’s not what you’re used to, the taste can be daunting. Salty. Strong flavoured. Hot. And oily.

Lime or lemon is cut into chunks, salted, left to air and lose moisture for a few days, then mixed with hot chili powder, turmeric, and other spices, after which it is covered in mustard oil to age and ‘mellow’.
The salt will have penetrated the rind, softening it and making it toothsome. The hot chili powder will fight the sourness and the salt for top billing. The turmeric helps keep it from ever going bad.
A good nimboo achar lasts longer than an Egyptian mummy.

Achar is also made from green mangoes, cauliflower, carrots, beets, turnips, ber fruit, and various other vegetable substances. Some are more perishable than others, but they are all exciting.

All of this is mentioned merely to interest you in the subject. Go out and buy a jar of green mango pickle.
If you enjoy it with your curry, you can thank me for introducing you to the substance.
On the other hand, if you dislike it intensely, don’t blame me.
I don’t know what you’re talking about. Not a clue.
And I wasn’t trying to corrupt you at all.
Whatever gave you that idea?

While we talked, a large furry eggplant calmly ambled past.  No haste, no circumspectness. The animal was aware of us, but considered us unthreatening entirely.
It headed toward the back door of the store.

One of us speculated that the raccoon wanted to acquire some cigars. Obviously, having no pockets whatsoever in which to keep coins or a credit card, it couldn’t very well go in and purchase them like a normal customer.
Entirely aside from which the only financial company even likely to give a raccoon a credit card is Discover – they’ll extend plastic to darn-near anyone – and the tobacco store only accepts Amex, MC, and Visa.
Raccoons are clever at picking locks. They’re like San Francisco landlords that way.
We assume that Brian doesn't notice when a corona goes missing in the night.

After a little while the humans got into vehicles and headed back to the city.
The raccoon had the parking lot to himself the rest of the night.
Which was probably exactly what he wanted.
He seemed like rather a quiet sort.
Not interested in pickles.


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GOING DOWNTOWN

When I left the store with my bag of groceries there was a small raccoon sitting underneath the acacia tree at the bus stop.
It gazed up at me as I passed.

At that moment I really wished that I had bought some ice cream.
Raccoons love ice cream. We know that from YouTube.
And this was a nice looking raccoon.
Very personable.

I strongly feel that charming individuals deserve ice cream.
Especially if they have friendly eyes.

It wasn't till twenty minutes later at home that I remembered that there were three tubs of Häagen-Dazs in the refrigerator.  Mango, blueberry crumble, and rum raisin.
I could've gone outside with a bowl for the raccoon.
But it was without doubt already long gone.
Wish I had thought of it sooner.

There are no ice cream stores in the neighborhood, and the local market closes at nine thirty.
So the little thing probably didn't hang around.
If she (I'm assuming it was a female) seriously wanted ice cream, she probably took the next bus across the hill.  Surely a bus driver would let a small well-behaved creature on without paying?
It's dangerous in this city at night, young persons of any species should not be outside so late.
Even if they are furry, nocturnal, and can climb trees.
You just don't know what might happen.

Somewhere there's a raccoon standing up with its paws against the bus window staring out into the night, hoping that they will soon go past a creamery.
Sparkly black eyes and a positive attitude.

There is no ice cream anywhere in that direction.
Darn it, I should have bought some.

The next time I go to the store I'll get some bars.
Or maybe single serving cups.
Just in case.


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SMALL DEGENERATE WATCHING A GENTLEMAN BATHING

The perfect thing to do during a cold-afternoon, especially on a day off, is to take a long hot bath. Nothing really beats lazing in the tub, with suds pooling in my navel and warm steam rising.
Yes, ideally there would be another person there too, but you can’t have everything.
So instead there's a book, a pot of tea, and an angry raccoon in the bathroom.


洗熊

This particular angry raccoon claims to be German. He says he studied at Heidelberg.
Remarkably, there are indeed such creatures in Germany.
Raccoons were introduced both deliberately and accidentally, starting over seven decades ago. They've made themselves right at home.
Gone all native, so to speak.

He looks disapproving whenever he’s near me, and often mutters something about ‘nasty Dutchy, crush you’.
Not exactly the best company during a long soak. I’ve told him that I would vastly prefer someone female and clearly human, can’t he at least gaily wave around a pair of panties (with or without lace edging) to evoke some feminine charm for chrissakes, but he ignores me and gets dangerously close to my teacup.
Sometimes I’ll sit on the edge of the tub smoking, while he glares at me and suggests that I should use more soap. Like many Germans, he disapproves of my display of Dutch sensuality, and my charming badger-like nature.
I think he feels threatened by it.

Along with several of the other stuffed creatures, he has an attitude problem. The majority of them are not fully grounded in reality, and some are exceedingly maladjusted.
Fortunately, only the raccoon watches me bathe. It’s the water that entrances him. This is not surprising, as the German term for the raccoon is "der Waschbär" - 'the washbear'.
I doubt that it's my slickly wet male body, glowing and fragrant - there has never been much evidence of a sense of aeasthetics from the beast, and that again is very German of him.

Gunther (the raccoon) says he's willing to take a pair of crisply CLEAN panties from a nice young lady to wave about, but under no circumstances will he accept any panties that I might offer him. He distrusts any and all feminine undergarments to which I have any connection.
He also claims that my boxers and my socks roam around the floor at night looking for victims, who will never be seen again. Several of the roomies have similar beliefs about my clothing. Something about a bad aura or bad karma attached to the human male.
Well, specifically to me. Probably some masculine rivalry going on or something.
Be that as it may, they vastly prefer feminine underwear, and I shall not fault them for that.

Gunther has even said that if a nice young lady were to donate her panties, she could come over once a month to wear them for a while. Just to keep them in shape, he has no objection to that. Why, he'll even help her!
Despite his weird fascination with scanties, I try to keep him on the subject of underwear, because otherwise he'll threaten to bomb Rotterdam, or bring up the famous autobahns again.
Plus Stukas, and raids over Coventry.
He's rather obsessive.

Once, Gunther and one of the other residents in the apartment had a long quarrel about bikini briefs versus French-cut high waists. With or without lace edging, in nice fruity colours. It ended with the loser screaming about the siege of Leningrad and the bitter cold on the Russian Front, which, apparently, was an argument for more fabric.
Gunther holds out his arms to indicate how big precisely and no bigger the nice young lady whom he wishes would donate such a garment should be. Given that he's only a foot tall, you can imagine that she won't be much larger than that - he has short arms.

He's never spoken of brassieres, so it is quite likely that breasts are entirely beyond his reach. Or at least his attention. Though there is a distinct possibility that the fierce small she-sheep, who regards nice female bosoms as HER real-estate ("mine! I found them") has Pavlovianly dissuaded him from even coming near such things, by growling at whoever dares come close when she is happily nestled in between. Whatever the case, he will on occasion wax lyric about small feminine bottoms lovingly encased in silk or cotton.
With or without lace edging.
Then he starts singing in German.
I usually give up conversing with him at that point, and retire to the tub to read my philatelic catalogue and blow bubbles. Crazy furball.

A pot of tea, a few cigarillos, and an argument with an irascible raccoon, will take up a good hour of soaking.

If panties actually were involved, it would take a hell of a lot longer.
And I'd unceremoniously chuck the raccoon into the hallway.
He can stew in his own neurotic juices out there.
Rail furiously against the closed door.
Screaming "panties!"


Honestly, I have no idea why he's so obsessed with cotton, silk, curvature, gussets, and lace edgings.
Must be one of those German things that I just don't get.


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NOB HILL BADGER

Yes. I am the badger. I do not consume "Toad S.O.L Stew".
Someone else can eat that.

I am the badger of Nob Hill.
And have better resources.
It is autumn on Nob Hill. I will pursue the raccoons and possums.

Together we will raid the trash receptacles and throw empty containers against walls, making a furry racket. We will share our fine tobacco, produced by elderly English companies. And enjoy the last bit of mayonaise in a discarded jar.
We have tough digestive organs, we do.
Is that a fresh cigar butt I see?
A yummy duck leg?

Somewhere out there is a small feminine dark-haired person who resembles a raccoon most remarkably. Together we shall chase the pigeons away from our favourite row of garbage cans. Ours!
There is some charsiu in there, I'm sure of it.

In tandem we will amble up Pacific Street, checking out the recycling bins and basement windows. Or stalk pussy cats.
The badger and his co-conspirator.
A small petite raccoon.


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BEASTS OF NOB HILL - WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE

Every morning while washing I can hear screeching parrots overhead.
It's probably the Telegraph Hill flock, but I think they may be forming a colony in the nearby green area. Lately I've been hearing them behind the apartment in the evening too.
Nob Hill is not only a supportive environment for super rich San Franciscans, at its lower reaches it is also hospitable to more colourful creatures.
Parrots. Crows. Raccoons.
And those of us who qualify as none of the above.

There is in fact a booming raccoon population out there. A veritable mob.
Little furry burglars and con-artists everywhere.
In addition to the over-fed raccoons that live near the Ping Yuen projects, there's also some fat and sassy beasts further up Pacific Street, who are adept at raiding waste disposal containers. They avoid the recycling bins and head straight for trash or compost - that's where the pizza is!
Plus cat doors, basements, and back seats of parked cars. Wouldn't be surprised if they've stolen an infant or two, and are raising them as feral naked children.
It would explain some of the crazy ladies in this neighborhood.

How would YOU like your child to grow up eating garbage and mugging cats?
Better keep the kid away from those fast-food burgers. That's how it starts.


A few years ago I would occasionally sit near the church on Larkin and Clay Streets in the shadow of the trees of an evening to smoke my pipe. That's less appealing now - the pastor, his flock, and the raccoons have all fled, the pigeons and street people have taken over.
The building is abandoned and falling apart.
Even the local crows avoid it.
Not enough roadkill.

Or maybe not any that stays around for very long.
It's probably those feral children.

There are fewer street areas where one can have a quiet smoke than once there were.
If it's not someone trying to bum a fag, it's a snooty transplantee from Bucketknowswhere in the Midwest, objecting vociferously to tobacco near the car or her kid.
Lady, your car won't come to any harm because of nicotine, and far better you should worry about the raccoons stealing your ugly brat.
Besides, your precious poppet is INSIDE the house! How dare you bother me when I'm not even near him?
If raccoons don't snatch your child, I hope crows mistake him for roadkill.
Peck peck peck peck peck - darn, tastes nasty! Like bad hamburgers!
Either that, or the parrots should traumatize the monster.
Fly around his head calling him rude names.
I'll teach them the words.

There are also raccoons up at the top of the hill, living off the fancy hotels and rich people.
Plump, prosperous, and remarkably contented. Where they are, they don't have to work for a living.
Probably a surfeit of discarded pizza.
Plus the occasional cigar.

Sometimes, at night, I'm aware of beady eyes watching my every move.
Fur and feathers everywhere.
Remarkably, almost no cats.
I think they got chased away by the parrots.
Those birds have a tendency to gang up on other animals.
Between them and the crows, the pigeons are having a hard time of it.

I hope that the parrots and the raccoons drive out the non-smokers next; there's far too many carpetbaggers from elsewhere in the country in this neighborhood.
If I have to choose between trust-fund opportunists and yuppies on the one hand, or raccoons, parrots, and crows on the other hand, you know which side I'll take.
Furry thugs and feathered rowdies win hands down.
No animal has ever objected to my habits.
Maybe I can reward them with food.
I will put a burrito outside.
It's better than a baby.
Con salsa picante.
Bon gusto!


Would y'all perhaps like a cigar?


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THE TOFU BEHIND THE HOUSE IS POSSESSED!

If little children dress up like the kind of people they would want to be - cowboys, little princesses, Superman or Spidy, skeletons, fairies - and adults dress like sex gargoyles and zombies - or decomposing dead sluts - what do animals dress up like?

I suspect that somewhere in my neighborhood, a raccoon is dressed up like a lump of tofu.
Nice, innocent, totally safe tofu. You'll never suspect a thing.


"Hey Martha, a giant piece of tofu is raiding our garbage can!"
'Harold, you're imagining things!'
"No, I'm not! I can see it! Now the tofu is brutalizing the cat!"
'Have you been at the medicinal grade marijuana AGAIN?!?'
"Hmmmph!"

And so Harold subsides, grumbling, with his pot pipe, comforting himself with little stinky clouds of joy.

It isn't till the cat comes stumbling in, looking blissfully the worse for wear, with a silly grin all over its face, that Martha finally realizes that something went on in the back yard.

Say, what gender is that cat anyway?

It doesn't matter. Tofu is bisexual.

Especially here in San Francisco.


We do not judge anyone.

Just beware of chunks of wandering tofu, especially on Halloween. They're likely to be oversexed and violent. Personally, I always look askance at hunks of beancurd crossing my path, especially if they leer knowingly.
Ambulatory tofu is almost always pure EVIL.
Possibly you can bribe them with candy.
But your pussy will be quite pissed.
Tofu is smooth, and so silken.
And totally safe sex, too.
Your cat values that.
Modern age love.
Frightening!
Howl now.
Miao!




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RACCOONS LIKE ICE CREAM

Consider this a youtube Monday - sort of a takeoff of e-kvetcher's Music Monday.

There is no music here. Just raccoons.


This first one shows a raccoon eating kitty treats:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hIjoBwmpx_0&feature=related


Raccoons also like light:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LflOrzfXcqs&feature=related


And here are a whole bunch of raccoons who just want some ice cream:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g3Tuhamsmis&feature=related



One has to sympathize.
It is very human of them to want ice cream, I too want ice cream.

I would share my ice cream with them (if there were any raccoons around right now), if only they would agree to eat it like civilized people - with a spoon.
It just tastes better with a spoon.

At this point I am fairly certain that an entire colony of raccoons occupy the abandoned church a block away. The place is boarded up and there's a warning to stay off the premises. There used to be street people sleeping on the steps, and people would leave small food items there.
The street people are gone, but the small food items still get left.
That has to mean that raccoons have taken over.
No, they didn't eat the street people.

Raccoons in the Bay Area are adept at undoing latches, locks, and loose planking, and they are not particularly shy around humans. This is a tolerant part of the world.
They assume that if they don't bother us, we won't get scared or start panicking and screaming.
Eventually they will find a use for us - they're certain of it.
And maybe we'll stop insisting on spoons.


LAGNIAPPE

Here's a raccoon with a sharp eye for 'recycling' opportunities:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y3J8vYL_Vro&feature=related

Betcha his pad is very comfy. He probably also has some furniture he "borrowed" from somewhere, and an icebox (or hot plate).
Plus some spoons.