It’s not the cost of tickets, or the airfare, or the hotel. My ass is used to being screwed by the size of those bills.
It’s the homeless.
We were staying in the Gas Light district — ohh sorry, sorry, Gas Lamp — I was thinking about Washington DC between the Trump hotel and 1600 Penslyvania Ave…
Wondering around the Gas Lamp in San Diego, we were surrounded by hundreds of homeless.
They were polite and quiet.
But the Bear couldn’t stand to see them limping and muttering to themselves. She was handing out $20 bills like fun-sized snicker’s bars on Halloween.
It was just a fucking game show at 4th Avenue and Broadway. “You get a $20, and you get a $20. ” She even handed a $20 to a guy who was working in a yellow jacket and sweeping off the street…
She teaches junior high in Arizona, and she kept picturing future versions of her students.
“We gotta do something,” she kept saying as we are heading back to the ATM machine for another armful of bills.
Sorry, but if we come back to San Diego, I’ll be the one living under a bridge.
I got a spot picked out in La Jolla next to the beach park. It’s part of my retirement plan when the Bear dies, and I run out of money.
My San Diego friend, Stephen Metcalfe, is going to help Geno from Reno and me get a nice little bridge not too far from the LJBTC Community — but, you know, far enough so the 1-percent can’t smell what Goat-fucking Geno is cooking.