BIRDS-EYE VIEW

One of the scenic sights of San Francisco is the pooing man of Nob Hill. Which, as a tourist, you would normally never see, so I will tell you what to do.
I'm a giver.
And I want you to take just one image back to Kansas City when you leave.
Let it be what you remember of our fair city.

At around seven AM position yourself within several feet of the two cars parked just before Leavenworth on Clay Street.
North-west corner.
Wait.

Sometime within the next hour, like a timorous forest creature, the pooing man of Nob Hill will appear.
Then do his little trick.

I know this, because I have seen him a number of times while on the bus. When there is no room to sit, there's a fifty percent change that you will face pooing man, if he's at his accustomed spot.
But don't worry, he won't be facing you, so there is NO chance that you will recognize each other later.


A MAN WITH A GOODLY CIGAR

I was reminded of this by a discussion among the smokers at the wall today.
Trust me, those cigar smokers bring up the strangest subjects.
Must have something to do with nicotine overload.
Pipe smokers NEVER mention such stuff.
We are clean-minded people.

One of them detailed the reason why the local tobacconist now has an iron gate in front of the door.
The proprietor made a mortal enemy, presumably among the local street people.
Though it could very well have been a cigar-smoker.
Some of them are vengeful and unstable.
One of them stepped on a pigeon once.
He claims it was an 'accident'.
Right in front of the shop.
What suspect fortuity!

I would hang out exclusively with my own kind ("pipe gang"), except there's only two and a half of us, whereas there are over a dozen cigar smokers.
The half-member of pipe-gang is actually a whole man, but he dallies far too much with flavoured cheroots and cheap stogies to be considered an equal, and he often talks just like them.
Strange distasteful subjects, ribald humour, unprintable language.
It is distressing to hear their conversations - rather like being in a steamy locker room while sweaty naked frat-boys snap each other's privates with wet rat-tails, telling off-colour jokes and making crude remarks.
They aren't clean-minded, unlike us pipe smokers.

Normally, I do not listen in, but keep quietly to myself, happily dreaming about bra sizes and cotton panties.
The modern brassiere is truly a wonderful accomplishment, don't you think?
And both garments evoke such beauty and grace!

Today, my pure young thoughts were brutally swept away by the depravity and vulgarity of the boys.
Thanks, cigar-gang.


Happy weekend.

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