Forgive me, gentle readers, for the long dry spell. Houseguests and flu claimed my attention.
A sunny day in the Haight. A boy stands on the sidewalk, open book in hand, offering to read poetry.
"Read you a poem, sir? No charge.
Free poetry, ma'am?"
New generation hippie chicks in prairie skirts:
"Which brings it back to feminism, and really, doesn't everything, in the end?"
Mr. Billy and I are indulging in crepes when a man struts slowly past the window. He is wearing a short, frilly white dress, the skirt all lace and ruffles, puffy sleeves. Skinny bare legs, athletic shoes. He's scrawny-necked, adam's apple prominent over the scoop neck. He's thrusting his head forward and back with enough sharp force to shake his hair into his eyes.
He's carrying a sign:
"Relax, baby
I'm a chicken"
Later, we see him returning on the other side of the street, breaking from his chicken imitation long enough to check his watch.
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4 comments:
Now that is why I love San Francisco: no matter how weird you are, there is always someone weirder than you out on the sidewalk. Always.
But why a chicken? Why not Big Bird, or an armadillo, or a bat, or Batman, or the Hillside Strangler?
Why a chicken? That's what I want to know
At least that chicken still had his watch. I had a pet chicken growing up, and I'll be damned if she didn't lose her watches all the time. And take money from my wallet when I wasn't looking, but that's another story.
we haven't been outside with you in a while, c.b. I especially like the bit about everything bringing it back to feminism. but I'm sick of the poetry people.
bones - I also appreciate how high the bar has been set for weirdness around here. most of these guys you see out there on the street, you're just, "pf, save it for the tourists, buddy."
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