IN TOUCH WITH MY MEAN-SPIRITED SIDE

Slow relaxed day, enjoying the cool summery weather we often have in San Francisco while the rest of the world burns. The neighborhood on the east side of Nob Hill, very yuppie until it shades into Chinatown. Crazy man screaming on the corner of Broadway and Stockton, tea and a pastry, then walking in a wide curve around a skeevy streetperson on Waverly.
Both dubious people were white.

We tolerate them.

It's cheaper than sending them back to Kansas.

Kansas is a state with more Republicans than average, lots of religion, low educational standards, and a trailer park from Overland Park to Elkhart True Value Lumber.

One of the things Kansas is known for is crating up their crazy people in nice roomy boxes and shipping them out to the coast on freight trains. By the time they've chewed through the restraint devices and the wood planking they crossed the California border, and recapturing them is impossible. It's a neat solution to a problem and has the blessings of all the major fundamentalist denominations.

Had two bowls while I was out there avoiding rabid Midwesterners. Their less rabid more frequently bathed kin are in town, abundantly, and the main streets swarm with them.

I am always surprised that these people aren't anxious to reclaim their long lost kin gone feral and vocalizing on the main thoroughfares of San Francisco. "Why cousin Freddy, we thought you had jerned the baptists and wuz lost forever!" Followed by warm hugs all around.

When people hug in public here, either they're out of towners carrying the plague or wallet thieves. Cousin Freddy probably knows that. First lesson in urban living.
He may be crazy as a bedbug, but he ain't no fool.



In all honesty, I can barely wait for the tourist season to end.
So that all these ugly troglodytes can go home.
And stop clogging the sidewalks.



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