Sunday, February 19, 2023


Bus drivers in the Bay Area should be paid extra. Because there is always at least one crazy person on the bus, quite close to confrontation, loud surreal argument or screaming match, or complete breakdown, as well as at any given time half a dozen people who don't know where they're going. And on the busses traversing Marin, a potsmoker trying to push the envelope. That smell.

So if at all possible, don't get into any conversations on the bus.

"Does anyone have change for a twenty?"

No. No way in hell am I admitting that I have twenty, OR speak a human language. My teeth and claws itch for your blood, my tail hurts, and I failed at communicating in grammar school. I'll just sit here mutely looking like I want to rip your lungs out. Now go away or I shall make you rather uncomfortable. I am an eldritch horror.

The chap sitting behind me this morning was convinced that the bus driver was deliberately trying to make it impossible for him to catch another bus in San Raphael. And was louder everytime he said so.

The bus has a few stops that it cannot leave before a set time, the computerized console for the driver tells him when. Traffic flowed easily, and the busdriver waited for the computer to greenlight his departure at those few stops. Which the eighty year old behind me was convinced was deliberately meant to inconvenience him.
Paranoid, senile, confrontational.
A winner.

The monthly meeting of the local pipe club today was graced with three hours of little white nipple dude. Who doesn't ride the bus thank you Jesus but could. Three. Solid. Hours.

He obsesses over one brand. Several types of product.
As well as an imaginary helicopter which he pilots, his imaginary wife and daughter when he remembers that they exist and live with him, and the single red red rose he bought for a date when he was still in his teens or twenties. He's a thrilling on and on droner with a past that changes a lot, and is always marvelous and educational. A remarkable man.

Three. Solid. Hours.

I spent that entire time high as a kite on caffeine. I've learned that the only way to survive people like that is to stay constantly ahead of them.

Several of my associates made bee-lines for the single malt or the sherry, then fled over to the area where I was to talk about Stanwell pipes and Esoterica Tobacciana tobaccos, plus Greg Pease's Fog City Collection. So I had a wonderful time.

Sadly, the lovely fellow getting a PHD in Art History could not stay. Not that I wish for him to have exposure to little white nipple dude, but I would have liked to have conversed with him more. Before he left I made sure he had a large enough sample of Dorchester for several bowls. It's mighty good stuff. He'll try and stay longer next month.

I had a good time. I hope the others did as well, despite the imaginary kinfolk and the submarine with which someone fought the plesiosaurs in World War One.

For some reason one of the members brought a big bag of Mendocino Oregano, which a kinsman cultivates. None of it was actually sampled, but there was some smoked salmon which was very nice.

I enjoyed two bowls of Dorchester.

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