Thursday, October 17, 2019


At all three bus-stops closest to my dwelling, you are likely to get into conversations you will regret. The dysfunctionals at the stop heading West used to be at the stop heading East during the summer, which has since then been taken over by space aliens or relatives of Gollum; and the stop on Polk Street has a small colony even worse than the other two. What with being conveniently close to both a liquor store and a donut place.
That's two major food groups!

The stop nearest the front door last night had one person having an angry fit, imagining invisible people or creatures getting on his lap or shoulders, and a drunk who thought he was having a profound conversation.
With. The. Angry. Fitting. Man.

While out on the steps I could hear the two gentlemen, without being seen or drawn into their conversation, that being two monologues of differing degrees of unpleasantness, delivered in tandem. Understandably, the folks waiting for the bus stood a bit away from the tumultuous twosome.

Far be it from me to criticize individuals with rich inner lives.

But they shouldn't stop here; this is bat country.

I'll just quietly stand over here, smoking my pipe, invisible, with absolutely no spare change no weed no moments and no cigarettes.

Three evenings ago a loud crazy woman went by, pulling a stained mattress toward the Church with the Chinese childcare centre in the basement, where she parked herself, settling in for the night. The little kiddiewinkies must have been extremely surprised the next morning, but fortunately their parents now wait with them protectively until the doors open.

If I had kids, I would probably move out of San Francisco.
This place is getting more bizarre as time passes.

Trust me, it isn't old age saying that.
I'm still relatively young.

Sie können hier nicht anhalten, das ist Fledermausland!

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