San Francisco must be the nutter capital of the world. At the bottom of Powell Street where it meets Market Street there’s the finest collection of loons you could ever wish to meet. This must be a legacy of too much drug use during the flower-power hippie years. There’s all sorts of manic street preachers and assorted mad hatters. There was a woman who stopped to stroke the tarmac as she crossed the road, oblivious to the traffic bearing own on her.
The number 71 bus to Haight-Ashbury was clearly a meeting place for the mentally unsound. Even the Kurt Cobain wannabe loon shook his head at the strange old woman with the blue wig and eye shadow and special line in mumbling disaffection. And then there was the black guy who I thought had a mobile phone. Except he didn’t. The bus was subjected to one side of a discussion he had with himself. Yikes. Worryingly we didn’t seem to attract that much attention. We must have blended in well.
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