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:
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.