LET OUT THE DOGS

On the way to the bus this morning I passed a man with no arms having a foul-mouthed fit about people, and swinging his purchases wildly with his prosthetics. Understandable. When he lost his arms he may have gained anger issues. Most people would.
No, I didn't stop to inquire, or to hug and tell him "you are loved".
I am not that human.


I'm sorry, someone else will have to inform him of that. Preferably soon.


Coffee is not always the best policy.


Polk Street at many times presents an educational spectrum of human types. Last night there was a line of sugar-zombies outside the donut place, and half a block away from that, a line of hip alcoholics waiting to get into a club. Plus a dancing nude. A few feet away from the Mexican gentleman grilling bacon-wrapped hot dogs, a young couple were making out.
As I passed I heard her gasp and breathily exclaim "the smell of meat always makes me so hot!"

I almost never have that reaction.
Meat, you too are loved.
Athletically.


Early in the morning, Polk Street is quieter, emptier. Not saner, but more peaceful. This is San Francisco. We are good at ignoring angry people.

Although bacon-wrapped dogs always get our attention.
There is something zesty and exciting there.
An almost sexual sizzle.

Love.




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