San Francisco, you brittle old tattered whore city like elderly Zsa Zsa Gabor with real diamonds, you still put on a glittering front for your customers seen from the Bay on Sausalito Ferry approaching you at nightfall.
What is that far off roar I heard but hopeful schemers at Montgomery Street cocktail party of insane tearing? I heard you all from far out on the Bay coasting past the Rock, I heard crowds of young millionaires in black Italian hipster clothes clutching leather handbags filled with dreary dream money and heartless hope as Bentleys passed into the fog.
Down on Broadway I saw hard barkers under hard lights with hard faces, heard hard DVD porn blow-out specials 8 hours for $19.95. I saw Zsa Zsa decayed to tits and ass displayed at bargain rates and free looks encouraged under the glare as washed up out of time hippies huddled on Kearney Street stairs waiting for this night to pass with one guitar but no one who could play.
I heard fast-talking North Beach restaurant shills, pasta shills, pasta shills, who long ago took down their pants for one thousand dollars now they hustle tourists through the door for cold cold calamari at bargain rates on the cold sidewalks of North Beach today above the Scarbary Coast.
Over Russian Hill on Polk Street I heard hard nightmare laughter spewing from open bar doors while hard homeless wretches echoed same hard haw haw jiving, dancing and paper bag drinks on the curb and puddles of vomit spread along the sidewalk turning pink in the dawn.
Oh city of toilet paper wads under the eucalyptus and sodden doughnut boxes in the bus stop shelter, city of drunken wakes for departed neighborhood libraries, city of rotting art under the mudslide, of shameful ignorant laughter in the starving night.
I love you so much, old whore.
Last One To Know Dept: Is it true that when the top execs went to Washington this week to beg for free money for their suffering sad companies, each one flew in his own private jet?
Quiz: 1. Why was this not a good idea? 2. Why doesn’t this surprise me?
A rather amazing letter has appeared this morning at A Letter From Leslie On The Road – 1962. I feel like the Pig is ratcheting to something new and pretty wild. But I can’t see it clearly yet.
Meanwhile, more Leslie H. of the Baby Beatniks coming up.
We, the Board of Directors of the Pondering Pig Society, wish there were more wise and clear-seeing directors on our board. We all tend to take naps in the sun after eating and drinking large lunches. But soldier on we must, providing guidance and direction to the rambling Pig Of The Grey Skies And Rain.
In our wisdom, we have decided to move the blog from Blogger to WordPress. We hope to find a more stable and flexible support system. This means nothing to you, I’m sure, but our far-seeing decision has forced the Pig to spend several days rummaging around in instruction manuals instead of writing either his novel or his wide-ranging blog.
The new version is currently up and ready to go, but we are remiss to transfer the service until we have explored it for minefields we don’t know about yet. And create categories so readers can find the good stuff. So maybe in another day.
Have you seen this? From the British newspaper The Independent today.
For 40 years Yoko Ono has kept a silent dignity in the face of global vilification meted out by legions of Beatles fans.
But today, in an emotional interview, she reveals the last words her husband John Lennon uttered moments before he was gunned down on a New York street in 1980 by Mark Chapman.
“I said ‘shall we go and have dinner before we go home?’ and John said ‘No, let’s go home because I want to see Sean before he goes to sleep’,” Ono, 73, told Kirsty Young on ‘Desert Island Discs’.
Young then asked Ono if Lennon had said anything after he was shot, to which she replied in almost a whisper: “No.”
This is so endearing. John was the best. And if John loved Yoko, and she stuck by him all these years, then Yoko’s good enough for me too. Full story at the link.