Eating a late breakfast in a local cafe yesterday, glad of the sunshine and the distractions of reading the book on Charlemagne, trying to keep my psychological balance during these personally and societally rollercoasterish times.
I look up at two guys who come in the door and claim a table about twelve feet across from me.
The first is a classic Old Queen. I keep hoping they will retire this model, but I fear that will never happen. The man is in his mid to late 70's. Overweight, pale, gray, with a huge and rather lowhanging belly, covered in his flowing silken short-sleeved Hawaiian-style shirt, a riot of pastels. Large sunglasses. On his hands a set of flashy rings, including one I can only describe as about the biggest digital bauble I have ever seen, and then two sets of bracelets on both arms. He looks up and sees me and flashes a big smile. I do not return it.
His companion is a black or mixed black/white guy about 35. Jeans and a t-shirt, workboots, short hair, nice and solid mesomorphic build and an easy non-dramatic smile.
Escort and client? Friends? Father and son? Who knows. This is San Francisco.
I get up after a few minutes to pay my bill and as I pass the table --another flash from the older guy-- I hear the younger man speaking...with the sibilance and cadence that reminds me of teenage cheerleaders.
God, I hate that. It might be shallow and judgmental and all that stuff, but I don't care. I've had a rough coupla weeks.
One of my darker opinions about many of the denizens of my local ghetto is that their sexual object choices are secondary results of a primary gender identity disorder. Not everyone can or should be John Wayne or John Cena, but, damn, why are ordinary men so difficult to find around here?
Irritating tribe.
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