(Muddy Waters Cafe, 521 Valcenia Street) ON a slow drip rainy day in the city by the bay in the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west and hills and crooked streets and people and concrete and Golden Gate Bridge and Park in between bay and ocean, we gather at Muddy Waters CaFe on Valencia at 16th Street. Old jazz music is the mood. The kind you would hear in an old juke-joint roadside with offbeat characters you find in books and the kind of my grandparents age from yesteryear.
On a holiday rains drown out any sorrows of Trump and Trump boosters who got the hideous face bastard where he is. With Trump as President, America (richest period when there was Jim Crow and inequality and all white divisions and 1/4% made you black) seems like a powerless bully headed toward self-destruction in a matter of short time. I supposed I blame Trump boosters and those who voted for Mickey Mouse and Ceasar and delicious Fox Mulder the most. Idiots they are. For this reason, I have no love at all for anyone of them. Each day, I truly wish them to the devil. I can't be happy until I am sure they are burning in hell. Each one of them. Starting with the little toe, then upward . . .
The pouring rain is not hard, but it rains and pours, and cars passing up and down the city streets sound like an echoing ocean wave. Muddy Waters is, indeed, the place where poets, painters and psychedelic aviators congregate. And Charles Pearson, too. Thus, we are all here. Young and old; a genderless kind of group...though, it is obvious what gender each one is...
Muddy Waters Cellphone Images