WAKE THEM UP

The day began with a coughing total loon on my front steps who tried to give me back a lighter with which he had lit his cigarette. It was his own lighter. And he had set fire to part of his scraggly beard. He extinguished the sizzling with a casual swipe of his hand -- probably not the first time it had happened -- and then emptied a partially full Red Bull can on the steps.

It's one of the things that makes me glad to live in San Francisco, where we afford people the freedom to express themselves with idiocy and personal neglect, no matter how much they seem to need a firm hand and medication. Be free, little dingbat, be free!
Think of the starving children!


Actually, the day started with coffee. Then getting ready for the memorial for my landlady's husband John, who passed away last month. I puddled up during taps and the presentation of the flag (he had been in military service), and concentrated on mentally doing calligraphy during other parts of the service to keep from making a spectacle of myself.
I am surprised at how emotional I can be.

Had more coffee upon returning home. Some more before going out to Chinatown for a tea-time pipe. Then more before heading out for the evening's pub crawl.

The pub crawl did not involve alcohol for me, but more caffeine. Consequently I was wide awake for the torch singer on screen at the karaoke place, as well as video of weird crap at that huge venue on the tip of Kowloon. Neither I nor my crawling companion were willing to listen to Sweet Caroline. so we left before the kwailo sang.

No one needs to hear kwailo singing.


Now, more than ever, I am determined to leave written orders that when I die, if there is a memorial service, instead of someone having to say that "he was a good man, a great cook, and he loved his pipe" (in my case only the last two facts are true), the gathered mourners get treated to a recitation of the eulogy from The Big Lebowski.

"Donny was a good bowler and a good man. He was one of us. He was a man who loved the outdoors, and bowling, and as a surfer he explored the beaches of Southern California, from La Jolla to Leo Carrillo and up to Pismo. He died, like so many young men of his generation he died before his time. In your wisdom, Lord, you took him, as you took so many bright flowering young men at Khe Sanh, at Longduc, at Hill 364. These young men gave their lives. And so would Donny. Donny, who loved bowling. And so, Theodore Donald Karabotsos, in accordance with what we think your dying wishes might well have been, we commit your final mortal remains to the bosom of the Pacific Ocean, which you loved so well.
Good night, sweet prince."

Leave them with something both inspiring and surreal.
And make sure there's plenty of coffee.

I don't love bowling.



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