I returned to San Francisco very early Thursday morning. A quick glance at the local newspapers reminded me how insular the city has become. Apparently, the conversation about the sexual metaphysics of a man reading poetry while sitting naked on a chair, is our latest offering to the art world. The board of Supervisors, along with Brylcreem-boy, are doing their clown-car shtick for the public while cutting deals for the back room. The drunken gimme contingent still wander the streets from the Daily City line to at least North Beach and the city still looks gorgeous seen at sun-up from the sixth street exit's overpass.
The fellow in the picture, Bufo Americanus, excaped the mower by the skin of his posterior, while I was helping my mother with the chores. He/she took this for a go-ahead to start trilling for love. It turns out there are a few potential mates back by the machine shed. Thankfully, there is life outside the city limits.
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