Sitting at work with my stomach growling I remembered the San-J Tamari Brown Rice Crackers I had packed in my bag for just a hunger emergency. There amazingly good and whole grain.
I opened the plastic baggie and pulled out one cracker. Instantly a movie quote popped into my head. "File under 'N' for no tits." My sister and I shared a proclivity for really bad films. I'm not talking like the bad movies that feature Julia Roberts, no those films are just shit. I'm talking "Deathrace 2000" and everything shown during the after hours on Cinemax and Showtime.
But the name of the film escapes me-- as do most film titles. What I remember from the movie was a killer clown who had cut off a woman's breasts and, as the quote implies, they were filed in an office under the letter "N". I remembered how my sister and I screamed with delight at the sight of the shriveled up breasts as the detective pulled them out of the "No Tits" file folder.
The San-J Tamari Brown Rice Crackers looked almost exactly like the shriveled up maracas only without the nipples. I was a little disturbed actually thinking about it as I started snacking. Granted that all went away as my hunger was satiated. Seriously if breasts tasted this good I'd be straight, and apparently, a cannibal.
I never knew there were blind giants that once called San Francisco home. You didn't know either? Color me surprised. But I have some proof. Just look at this picture taken on Van Ness Avenue. Right above the ground floor windows is something written in braille. Only blind giants would be able to reach those letters.
How many times have someone said to you, "I thought about you today", or, "I saw something and it reminded me of you"? Often I'm left asking the question in a rather defensive tone "Why were you thinking about me?", or, "what did you see that reminded you of me?" as if the person thinking about me is clearly doing it out of spite. It creeps me out a little bit (and by little I mean a lot) when anybody thinks of me when I'm not directly interacting with them. I don't know why but it does.
The other day my sister called me to let me know she had been out shopping. She saw an ad for Kleenex tissues and immediately thought of me because the blurry guy in the photo is bald and wearing a gray and blue combination which as any of my friends or enemies can tell you-- I wear just about everyday.
Out on my lunch I walked along 8th Street towards Market. An older woman, well into her sixties, was walking up the ramp to one of the local shelters. She wore a fanny pack that eclipsed her sizeable belly. She called out to me.
"Are there feathers in the window?"
"Where?" I made the mistake of asking.
"That building across the street. Are their feathers in the window?" I didn't turn right away to look across the street because I was transfixed on the drool that was coming out of both sides of her mouth. There was so much I though she must be part slug and when people aren't looking she'd fall to the ground, her body fat making waves upon that exuded slime.
"Are there feathers?" I looked across the street but my eye for details is horrible if I'm not wearing glasses. "I can't tell. I don't see anything."
"I can't tell either. I want to buy a chicken."
"Um, ok." I said.
"I want something to pluck."
"Good luck with that" I laughed as I turned and walked on.
She still talked even though I had walked away. I could hear her until I got to the corner the last words I could make out were "Haven't plucked anything in a long time."
You and me both I thought. You and me both.
I just got in from running down to Radio Shack on Market-- really they should call that store Shit Shack, because 1) they don't know shit and 2) they sell shit. But that's not the point of this paragraph. No, you see, I almost got run over by a MUNI bus while in a crosswalk. The bus didn't even make a stop at the stop sign and came through the intersection towards me. Ugh. With the two pedestrian deaths in the past month or so you'd think those affected disenfranchised apathetic drivers would at least care a little bit about not killing anyone else.
There is so much absurdity in that last sentence I'm actually laughing.
I went ahead and made a complaint with MUNI. I can't wait to see how long it takes them to get back to me.
Walking up Market Street at 11:15 PM on a Tuesday is always a trip. The homeless aren't yet passed out for the evening. They generally are attempting to get whatever they can from the few brave souls to will walk that stretch of street at night.
I had just finished watching the movie "Hostel", a movie all about boobies and gratuitous gore but not at the same time-because that would be an NC-17 film and not an R rated one. The movie was very stupid but made tolerable by the company I was keeping.
There was only one scene in the film that I almost lost my cookies watching. I actually broke out in a cold sweat and had to close my eyes for a second and get my bearings. It was a scene I needed to share with my sister, so I dialed her up.
As I went into detail of what I found troubling, an act that both my sister and I fear, a homeless man eating the last quarter of a burrito approached me.
Before he even opened his mouth I said, "No."
He responded "Two thousand."
"No" I said again.
My sister began laughing.
"Fifteen hundred" he countered.
"You can't boss people around." He took a gummy bite of his burrito and smacked out "people have rights."
He followed me to the corner of Market at 7th Street.
"Yep" I said.
"So we've reached an agreement. Goodnight." He turned and walked away.
"What the fuck" I said to my sister on the phone. "The people around here are fucked in the head."
I went on to talk more about my evening as I trudged up Market. One of the reasons I was on the phone was to keep the homeless at bay. Through empirical evidence I've collected the more often I'm on my cell phone the more often panhandlers do not ask me for change. I'm not sure it it's just out of respect for me being on the phone or if they know my attention is invested somewhere else.
But this alienation device doesn't work all the time. And it certainly wasn't working on Tuesday night. A woman stopped me at the Civic Center MUNI/BART station at 8th Street.
"I'm not asking for money" she began. This always denotes the start of a long story in which the teller will reveal the motive of actually wanting money after having tried to wear down the listener. I've lived in the City for over four years I'm keen to this tactic.
"My husband got arrested and is in jail. The police won't help me. I need to get back to El Cerrito and I just want people's BART tickets. I've only got seventy cents."
"Sorry- I don't have a BART pass" I said.
"Then do you have any change?"
A-ha! Why not just ask for the money straight up. See the hardship story tellers don't get any respect because they waste time. This is the number one way not to get any of my coin.
"Sorry, I don't carry cash" I say turning away and walking on.
By now I was jonesin' for a donut. So I cut down 9th Street and wrapped up my call with my sis. I ordered a French cruller, the counter person put it in a white bag. I stepped out of the donut shop and who should happen to be standing outside? BART pass lady. She followed me two blocks.
"Thought you didn't carry cash," she said in a hostel tone shakin' her head like a dashboard ornament.
"Thought you weren't asking for money" I laughed back shaking my head like a black woman.
"I need to get home."
"Sorry. But I'm not going to help you. And following me two blocks- that's just dumb."
"Just give me some change!" she demanded.
"Go turn some tricks for quarters" I spat. "Do something you're used to."
I crossed the street. She did not follow. I was annoyed. I began wishing that "Hostel" was set in San Francisco- only instead of preying upon tourists they captured beggars and rift raft. Now that would have been a movie I would have enjoyed.