These two fellahs gave me the okay to gather junk in the City of San Francisco. I asked when I’d get my metal badge.
“They give you a laminated piece of paper. We don’t have any badges.”
There’s more to tell but my fingers are falling asleep
Doug is a big supporter. So am I, in my way. Ol J Stew is quitting cigarettes and has decided to take up karaoke instead. Could be worse than butts.
But we went. And Doug, when in public, a crowd more or less, but not too loud, will stand next to you and just behind you and face the same direction as you face as he talks. So I look over my shoulder to see his face and his body is rigid and his eyes are wide and gleaming and he is encouraging you.
“You should go put your dick in that cake,” he’ll say.
That type of encouragement. The kind children of the church remember being the devil and the angel on your shoulder. Doug’s advice might sound like the Devil. But he is actually an angel to the outlaw. That is his role. And don’t we love the bad guy, doesn’t Jesus dig the prodigal son, isn’t the outlaw the one that will save us from the real bad guys?
Tonight while Doug was staring at a wall and telling me I should take off my shirt and dance with as much emotion as I could find in my old long bones while J Stew sang Young MC’s Bust A Move, he was the angel of truth and justice and I want everyone to know it. I think Stew -ball appreciated it.
Good morning inter-nutters! You’re probably already out yard saling, but I thought I’d update you on my status. I’m HIV negative! Ha, ha, just a little Pride Parade Day humor for you. Seriously though, getting the AIDS is not the physical comedy I like to laugh at. Much rather see you fall off a ladder!
I know you’re wondering why I didn’t post last night. I was out buying another truck. Oh, not really. I was laying down some bamboo flooring over that monsterous linoleum floor in the laundry room. As you can see in the photo, most of the linoleum had already torn off from opening the door.
Anyhoodles, gotta run. Heading to Mill Valley to make a little pepper. I shake the pot and nothing comes out lately!
Should we worry this water truck is spraying water out of a crack at the bottom of a 10,000 gallon tank? I’m at the top of a hill so I guess it’ll just wash away….
photo by ol’ J Stew
Ol’ J Stew quit smoking so he’s out early every morning pacing around the city burning off the need for a cigarette. Most of us aren’t up and out the door at five, hell even homeless folks are still trying to squeeze their eyes shut against the light.
“I’m not trying to take advantage of homeless people, I don’t take pictures of them. I think it’s interesting, the camp they make. It’s almost always in front of graffiti. And usually there’s a shopping cart or a baby carriage or something they push around,” he tells me. So I asked him to send some pix over. Anything to support him in his bid to quit.
The dregs of honey comb from the backyard hive. Rats got in and ate a bunch, then pooped all over the rest. Spiders and moths and slugs and earwigs are making it home now. Robber bees come through in the afternoon and drink free honey.
I just love metal so much. This guy in front of me at the scrap yard lacked no confidence in his knot tying skills.
This is the first lemonade stand in San Francisco I’ve ever seen. Most parts of town have gutter punks staked out on the prime corners spare changing people to death. Why not show initiative crusties? Sell some punk rock lemonade! In the Financial District security guards at every door would chase off even the cutest blondest child who tried to compete with the corporate giants. But out here in the Richmond we abut Sea Cliff, a three block wide Shangri La where multi-million dollar estates overlook the straights of the Golden Gate. Another sign of the economic meltdown’s far reach. These rich kids were pedaling lemonade and cookies.
It was a brother and sister act, probably 9 and ten, and I pulled my scooter over. I had just gotten my change back when Mom came hurrying down the sidewalk. It must be hard to be a parent in this day and age. The attention we pay to child predators puts it in all our minds. I myself wondered why these kids were out here alone. “If only I’d brought my truck, I probably could have gotten them and the cookies all in,” I thought. “But I can’t sell them at the flea market,” I realized. I blame Capitalism and The Media for this chain of thoughts.
She stood and smiled, but it seemed a nervous smile, and I wished I had shaved that morning, and not put on the hoodie that looks like I have an embroidered flower garden for breasts. I’ve taken to wearing a batting cage helmet on the scooter. My jeans were dirty. I hadn’t planned on interacting with impressionable youth, but here I was, supporting the next generation of entrepreneurs.
Sometimes adults have silent conversations between themselves around children and ours went like this:
“I’m terrified of you but don’t want my children to pick up on this fact.”
“I only thought for a second about stealing the kids because every one says kids get stolen. I don’t even want kids.”
“I can’t wait until you leave but I’m smiling and waiting.”
“I’m smiling a lot too, trying to reassure you Mom.”
So I pulled out my camera and asked if I could take a picture.
Just of the sign. I’m no dummy. I complemented the L in lemonade. The brother said he drew it so it would look like his sister made it. This was fascinating. I was standing before a true natural of the sales pitch.
At this point the silent adult conversation had reached a one way fever pitch and I slugged the last of summer’s favorite non-alcoholic money maker and kicked off my scoot with a wave. I did not look behind me, but I overheard, in my head, Mom saying sweetly, “You two wanna come in now and watch tv?”
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