Is It Me?

Last night I saw the excellent and disturbing documentary: Prodigal Sons. Consequently, AA, A and I spilled out of the film in strange head spaces only to find ourselves at the equally strange intersection of California and Polk streets. Desperate to process the film, we turned up Polk. We got approximately one foot before I stopped moving and instead started staring and pointing, all jaw droppy. AA and A just kept chatting and I was encouraged (kindly, because they are kind) to get my slow-ass butt in gear and start moving.

Me: Did you see that?

AA and A: Huh?

Me: That... that was John Waters!

AA: Oh, really? Huh! I figured you were just being slow and distracted.

And on that note, which says more about my turtle-like reputation than really anything else, we turned into the corner diner, where we munched on french fries, held our breath against the cook smoking in the kitchen, got stared down by a marble-eyed chihuahua by itself at the next booth, and visited the shortest toilet in San Francisco. So things ended as mundanely as possible. For me, anyways.