Mosey

Brunch was a success; the soup, not so much. They didn't have it on the menu. I made a scene, of course, and smashed a plate onto the floor before calling the waitress a useless bitch. They were very accommodating at this point, and allowed me to leave the restaurant without calling the police. I thought that rather kind of them and thanked them. I said I'd be back, warning them that should they not have the soup next time I returned, they'd have more than a few broken plates to worry about.

We moseyed on down Mission street, and then Valencia, stopping in shops, drinking pressed juices and pissing in whatever toilets we could find. We saw a leafy triceratops, taxidermied animals and a shot of yellow Pernod that looked like Gatorade. Oh yea, there was a puddle of puke too. After, I met Christine and we chatted over pizza and ginger soda. We continued the tradition of post-meal moseying, and tried to relinquish leftovers to a hungry homeless person. Somehow, we walked all the way from Market and 22nd to Market and 16th, then up 16th past Valencia without encountering a single homeless person. They're never there when you need them; only to inflict wicked guilt upon you when you have no cash left to give. We stopped off at a quaint cafe to have some hot chocolate as the sun began to set.

Later I watched Inherent Vice, a pulpy noir stoner comedy that I suspect will attract a cult following rivaling that of The Big Lebowski. The movie had no firm plot, only a constant feeling of befuddlement lazily lifting its head from a haze of pot smoke, beer, and patchouli. I still haven't been able to make much sense of the experience.