A prissy Colonel Sanders is next to me and won’t shut up.


I write this from a coffee shop in San Francisco, working it mobile-office, old-style. The last couple days have been great, hanging out with old friends and eating well. Today I will do some work and rediscover a bit of old SF. The weather is cool but sunny. The only annoying thing is this overbearing asshole pontificating to his friend on the phone next to me. He keeps peppering his conversation with phrases like “You’ve got to OWN it, that is what I am sayin'” and “How he takes what I say is HIS responsibility, not MINE”. Then he goes on to tell the sad sack on the other end what he can do to improve his life, and it all sounds like pablum straight out of the self-help bookshelf at the local Barnes and Noble. I have to admit it is even more irksome because he is loud and has a southern accent, which gives to his haughty attitude and even more annoying tenor. He keeps talking endlessly about how he handled things with his ex boyfriend, how he knows what to do in every situation. He looks a bit like Colonel Sanders with those top horn rimmed glasses, if the colonel were a bit younger, gay and self-important.

Sandy strikes again


This is getting ridiculous. Every few months it seems, you crawl out of your suburban hole, fill out my email address on various websites ranging from cheap magazine promotions to jewelry stores to pet supply products (and strangely, even Men’s Health Magazine…is it for the soft porn allure of shirtless men, Sandy? Are you trying to convince your flabby husband to get in shape with a subscription?). Enough already. You, Sandy, have been a bit careless. You have left clues that have allowed me to trace you to your ugly tract house on Golf drive in San Jose, California. I surmise from the look of it you lead a somewhat empty existence. Perhaps you are suffering some sort of existential crisis, one that can only be assuaged by consumer goods and promises of unattainable health and beauty. Perhaps that is why you get your thrills filling in web forms with legitimate seeming email addresses that happen to belong to someone else. Sandra, this is very bad karma indeed, and if you don’t stop I fear you will be reincarnated as something rather unpleasant like a dung beetle, or more fittingly, one of the animals they use to test your cheap cosmetics on.

Grind this organ.


One of the more bizarre (and annoying) recurrences in the street life of Mexico City is the organ grinder. They are everywhere, cranking out the most awful sounds and demanding to be paid for the torture they are inflicting. (Or could it be that they are asking to be paid to stop?) And unlike organ grinders in the provincial capitals of old Europe, these guys don’t even have a pet monkey doing a dance alongside them to lighten the monotony.