Gaping Into The Unknown Like A Gobsmacked Terrier

Here I am, awash in the San Francisco Marina mujeres, purple Joan
Miro' necktie swinging on my neck in the sunlight. The white non-fat
foam left in the cover of my Starbucks cup reminds me of the original
version of "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" -- you know the one with
Kevin McCarthy and Dana Wynter. Sure, you remember. When the eerie
foam evaporated from the bodies hatched from seed pods, new but
soulless alien replicas emerged to take the place of the original
persons. Years later, in 1978, they remade the picture and filmed much
of it up the street in Pacific Heights. (I used to see the star,
Donald Sutherland, walking his wee bit of doggie in the early morning
hours in Alta Plaza Park. That image was alien enough -- a very tall
man walking what looked like the world's smallest dog.) It occurs to
me that many of these extraterrestrially-bred copy cat creatures --
with the vacant look in the eyes and no emotions -- actually stayed in
the neighborhood long after the cast and crew packed up and went home
to Hollywood. With designer running togs and Prada sunglasses, they
fit in so well here.

What could be more terrifying than a story about your loved ones
suddenly, without warning, turning into murderous strangers with no
feelings whatsoever? Wait a minute. I think they call that divorce.

7F66,0A22,17AF

There is something really beautiful about downtown San Francisco after
a rain storm, when the sidewalk brazenly shows its sloppy urban sheen.
There's a sense of freedom in the air as the skies clear. I get the
feeling that I can walk anywhere in the world because San Francisco is
still a gateway to the imagination.

This morning, I have been with yet another medical person. Today it
was at Glide's Drop-In Clinic. Mimi, the nurse practitioner (and
heroine of "La Boheme"), was very nice to me. She gave me drugs. I am
so easily pleased. She slid the prescription slowly and deliberately
across the table to my fingertips. She wet her lips. Well, maybe she
wet her lips. All right. All right. She most certainly did not wet her
lips. You can see I am making such an effort to make the clinical
appear lascivious. And Act One is dying. ... Mimi is also trying to
lower the beta-blocker intake -- gradually. I screwed up the courage
to ask her about the wisdom in mixing Coumadin (blood thinners) with
Viagra. She looked it up on her Palm Pilot. The only thing I'd worry
about is your low blood pressure, says she. Would Rudolfo discuss such
things with Mimi? Not in Act One. No, siree. Yesterday, the SFGH
doctor increased the thinners. This is the Dance of the Dosage. I do
appreciate how powerful these drugs are. I'm a little afraid of them.
Funny. I was never daunted by a tumbler of tequila in front of me.

I am still amazed by how good the music is here at Starbucks in the
Theater District. Remarkably good taste and non-fat milk, too. ... I
confess, I have had impure thoughts. Without even an effort at
restraint, I leered unapologetically at the sign at the cafe on Taylor
Street moments ago: "Steak & Eggs $6.95." The image brings visceral,
carnal notions. But, as an entree, it's an offering as remote to me as
my long-awaited invitation to a luau on Krakatoa from the Polynesian
Grass Skirt Society, written in the warm, personal hand of Uma
Thurman. Ah, but let's face it: There is always Dusty Springfield
singing on the house system about the son of a preacher man. There's a
passion in her piety as she tumbles through the hay. I am so easily
pleased. I would like to hear a radio station where the announcer
reads only from the Book of Revelation. With a laugh track. ... Get
this: I had a dream last night (or this a.m) where I was leading a
mandolin orchestra and we were hashing out one of my songs, "Basura,"
but someone kept insisting on Eric Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight."
Oddly, at an art gallery next door to this Starbucks, I just noticed
the current show features photos by Pattie Boyd, the Carnaby Street
gal who captivated any number of Brit rock stars and inspired
(according to the sign in the window) Clapton's "Layla" ... George
Harrison's "Something" ... and Eric's "Wonderful Tonight." Just
another coincidence in my pathway, I suppose.

I notice more coincidences lately --- or maybe I'm just paying closer
attention.

Believe it or not, tomorrow night I anticipate a phone call from an
elderly man who wants to guide me into the rolling hills of the
California countryside for a day or two this week to get me out of the
city, er, The City. (It's Harold, the father of Father William, my
friend and spiritual advisor) This evokes that image of the solemn
medieval knight of the Crusades dutifully following the hooded,
black-shrouded figure of Death up the coastal hills in the Bergman
film, "The Seventh Seal."

I might be back by the weekend, if I get back at all. Inshallah,
anyway.

Here's Bellingham's breathless line on the trail, "Hey, wait for me,
Harold!"

90C6,2234,888DBy
the way, did you know that Sikhs are baptised in amrit, sugared water
stirred with a dagger? Of course you did.

I have a feeling that we will soon unravel this and other mysteries
that have baffled us for the longest time. Oddly, it is 70 degrees in
New York City. It's a bit like a wintry day today here in San
Francisco, though -- observed at our Polk Street listening post, The
Crepe House, that blares Arabic and Turkish music. By hookah or
crookah we will get through this day with success and self-assurance.
I hope something good happens to you -- as Benny Hill would say --
veddy, veddy soon.

Your fool on the Hill, Bellingham