FLYING SHEEP

Imagine a bus stop at the wrong place with an insane person sitting down out in the middle of the street counting garbage in front of it. While there is precipitation. At night. All of which is largely because of street work. Well, not that it was night. The deconstruction crew had nothing to do with that. That just happened. Getting on the bus across the hill was more surreal than it really had to be.

He got on at the same time as myself, and spent the entire ride cussing at his reflection staring crazily back at him in the window opposite. Man, he really hates that guy. I couldn't understand why, after all, other than the wild eyes, patriarchal beard, and slapdash towel turban, it looked like a decent enough fellow. But there was probably a history there.

I suspect low blood sugar may have contributed to his decomposure.


There are not a small number of people like that here.


One gets to see a few of them every day, especially if one is out at night. It makes touristing in San Francisco very special. One might even have a chance to interact with one or more of them. Don't worry, they won't bite. At least that's my experience. But then I don't look like an overfed meaty Midwesterner with lots of well-marbled flesh, so it might be different for some of our visitors. I mean, I don't know. Some of them might get bum-bitten. Carnivorous memories of the city. Bless them. Do come again. Try to look less filling this time.

Being exceptionally fond of sweets, I was pleased that an absolute bon-bon of a woman strolled past me as I was smoking my pipe while waiting for the bookseller to get off work. Not able to do anything about it, seeing as I was busy right then and that bowl was singing, good heavens, couldn't stop, but my my. Truffle-icious.

Other than that, nothing but the usual conventioneers. Drunk and joyous.
Did I ever mention that I'm an absolute puritan?
I hate it when those people have fun.


Slight sprinkles occasionally because of the weather. Loud boozy noise from the karaoke bar. Discordance. Too many people at the beer place. A loud fire alarm from the public housing up the street. Spray cleaning of pavement, garbage trucks, robotaxis, party slags.

Both Tat Yee and the most dangerous man in North Beach were at the bailout bar when we got there. But all in all it was quiet and gemütlich. Minor discussion of medical matters. The hospital staff often don't bother speaking English to me, even in the pharmacy.
The bookseller remarked that that must mean I'm there too often.

Well, no. Yearly check-up. Various tests. Flu and covid shots.
Refills upstairs at the pharmacy (every ninety days).
Today it was eye drops (眼水 'ngaan seui').


By the way. Everybody thinks of French people as either having helmets they clang with their armour-gloved hands, insultingly (hamster, elderberries), OR as scientists with faulty mustaches lecturing about Le Mouton Anglo-Français. That's just the way it is.



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