Sunday, November 10, 2019


The other evening, after taking the duck to my apartment mate's room for warmth, where he expressed jealousy over the large penguin having glasses ("I want glasses, I want glasses"), I went outside for a last smoke.

I have glasses too, and a pipe.
He isn't jealous of me.

Sometimes I am the most normal person out there, especially on cold nights. Superman with a dirty blue cape trotted past, howling and yelping.
A car sped down the street, heading the wrong direction (one way street), then screeched to a halt just before it would've hit the oncoming bus. Two people got off while the busdriver calmed down, one of whom was muttering "donuts, mmm, donuts". Bob's Donuts is easy walking distance away, and he may have needed some soothing sweetness after the near-accident.
Low blood sugar is a bitch.

Drunks camped out at the bus-stop. Those three start drinking early in the afternoon, become increasingly loud and obnoxious, before the cheap vodka quits them down in late afternoon. But even then, they keep up a steady stream of mumble, curse, and grumble commentary.

They like this block; it's nice and middle-class.

Across the street an elderly person naked to the waist danced ballet-style; leaps, gestures, gay pirouettes. Too far away to guess his mental state.

Even though I have an upset cold duck upstairs, I am normal.

Mary, who lives in South Carolina, is a crazy cat lady.
Last week she acquired yet another feline.
I think there are ten of them now.

I mention this for perspective. South Carolina is filled with weirdoes, and massively bad for the psyche. It snows there, when it isn't flooding or hurricaning. That does something to you.

Sofar none of the stuffed animals have expressed any interest in my pipes. Not even the one I had that night, which is the animal pipe par excellence, being the pipe for watching the rats in Spofford Alley.

One of Trever's Japanese Monsters likes the Tsuge made for Drew Estates.
All of his plastic creatures are pipe aficionados.
He lives in North Carolina.

Obviously very similar to South Carolina, so just as stressful on the soul. My theory is that without a rich inner life, living in the South, surrounded by weather and grits and pumpkins, would drive you mad. Whereas in San Francisco, surrounded by loonies, you're forced to be sane.

Both Mary and Trever are into pumpkin as a flavour for everything. Not just bad pie. It's a manifestation of something. They are deeply afflicted.

Shan't even mention Steve in Texas, who like the other two is also a pipe smoker. They've got swimming tarantulas in Texas.


I'll mention this brilliant theory to my friend the bookseller Tuesday evening. After a late night smoke in C'town. I'm sure he'll be intrigued.

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