Friday, November 29, 2019


The lump of blueish clothing and a blanket under the tree near the bus stop is NOT a dead street person; I went and checked, because it had been there for a day. And it was cold. The right weather for sick homeless people to expire. But there was no corpse there, and I was immensely relieved.


Other than Cantonese being spoken at either end of the street, there were almost no people about. Occasionally someone would wander past, with a dog, with a companion, or with what was left of a festive pie. The wisps of smoke curled over the edge of my pipe, hung there, dissipated. No wind.
Two layers of undershirt. Overshirt. Sweater. Another overshirt. Padded long coat. Little black granny gloves. Underneath all that I felt pleasantly toasty. Possibly the medication makes me more sensitive to cold. When I was in Vancouver years ago, in the middle of winter, it did not feel as frigid.
And there was snow on the ground then.

Gonna have to read up on that.

Medication. Not snow.

Snow I know.


A crisp winter morning, with shivering people at the bus stop. Not many, because of a long weekend. But to get to the shopping district today it is better to take public transportation. I'm heading off to work in a few hours, myself. There will be plenty of boys in the backroom most of the day, enjoying collegial company, smack-talking, huffing cheroots, and avoiding their wives. I intend to remain aloof from it all, with my pipes.

I am frequently surprised nowadays by the extreme and inhuman tolerance for temperatures displayed by the very young. Little girl in a tee-shirt yesterday, a hyper-active little boy running in circles for all the world as if he were simple minded, a pudgy millennial in sports shorts on the phone.

I did mention the multiple layers of clothing, did I not?

Clearly they're from a different planet.
We have been invaded.

Perhaps I should rub myself all over with bear fat after my shower. No one would notice, and I would smell appropriate for the weather. Smoky, and a bit greasy. A very winter-time odeur. Un bon parfum pour les vieux gentilhommes. C'est très chic.

The busdriver yesterday said she doesn't trust PG&E, what with their frequent power outages. She feels they're planning something, she doesn't know what, but in this weather that would be irresponsible in the extreme, possibly murderous. There are old people out there!

She's right, but we can always burn energy company executives for warmth.
Stack 'em like cordwood. They're fatty and combustible.

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1 comment:

Anonymous said...

"...we can always burn energy company executives for warmth.
Stack 'em like cordwood. They're fatty and combustible."

A capital suggestion.


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