Water Boy on His Way to Gitmo?

This afternoon I went to Walgreens to drop off film and get more film, and was on my way to Whole Foods for apples, flowers, lemon olive oil and a vegan brownie when I came upon a driver, northbound on Third St., making a right on red onto Mission St. despite the presence of many pedestrians.

When the car following did the same thing, a frustrated pedestrian showered the roof and window of the offending little red auto with water from a cup he was holding. The car made its turn, and the pedestrian crossed the street. Soon the amplified voice of the law came blaring through the warm afternoon air: “Hey, water boy!”

The pedestrian must not have known this meant him, because he kept walking in the exact same manner and did not even take the opportunity to drop his plastic cup into a trash bin he was passing at that exact moment, as I certainly would have done.

I had meant to turn off Mission St., but had to see what was going to happen next, so I followed along and was immediately rewarded by the sound of running footsteps belonging to a police officer in full SWAT gear. Actually, I don’t know what full SWAT gear looks like, but he was in a frightening navy jumpsuit.

He stopped the pedestrian. I stopped, too, and gave my view of the matter, which was that water is not going to hurt a car, while red-light-running cars can easily hurt pedestrians. The police officer didn’t appear particularly gratified to receive my opinion, but was reasonably polite.

I walked on a bit, but couldn’t leave the apprehendee to sink into Guantanamo without a ripple, so I went back and gave him a piece of paper with my name and phone number on it.

I hope the water-hurling pedestrian was let off with a warning, though the police car that roared up with lights flashing makes it seem not so likely. I wonder where he was going and if he had to call his boss and say, “I’m sorry I never came from lunch, but I’m in jail.”

The Hammett news is all good. He is eating and drinking; he appears to be free of diarrhea and bleeding, and he seems to be enjoying himself mightily.

The Flagyl-giving went perfectly smoothly yesterday and this morning. Fundamentally, he is of a placid and trusting temperament. I think what went wrong Saturday morning was that I was hanging onto him too far down on his neck, leaving his head free to thrash about, and I probably didn’t insert the syringe far enough in, making it too easy for the Flagyl to foam back out.

He is a darling little fellow, very sweet. Pictures are coming soon, though to the untrained eye, they will probably look a good deal like pictures of Thelonious.

I’m trying to think of a way to begin the next anecdote without saying I was sitting on the toilet, but I can’t think of one, so: I was sitting on the toilet one day not long ago and my baggy cotton pants were therefore bunched on the floor. Everyone pees! (my acupuncturist has a copy of the book Everyone Poops in his bathroom) and so did I, and when I was done, before I could hoist my bloomers into operating position, Hammett leapt into them and began digging around, perhaps looking for the entrance to the wine cellar.

He moves fast. Just as one is thinking he is in the bathtub, he no longer is; now he is trying to climb into the refrigerator, and a second later he is batting a Ping-Pong ball across the floor.

A critical mass has been reached in regard to the number of people I do not recognize in People magazine, so I have canceled my subscription, though this has happened before and not proven to be permanent. The magazine is also featuring an inordinate number of stories about people who lost weight and how they did it, which I could not be less interested in.

I’m sure I’ve explained how the Atkins Diet works. I’m Atkins and this is my diet: Eat whatever you like, and if you gain weight, buy bigger clothes.

Over the weekend, Tom and David and Lisa and I had dinner at Osha on Valencia St., and Tom and I saw Brokeback Mountain. He hadn’t seen it yet. I was seeing for the third time, and it made me even more miserable than the first two times. How heartbreaking the final scene is, ditto when Ennis visits Jack’s childhood home.

On Sunday, I did my cooking and saw 12 and Holding, which was awful. While it was pretty to look at, the candy colors contrasted jarringly with the sorrowful events, and it couldn’t make up its mind whether it was a tragedy or kind of a stupid, even offensive, comedy: Look! A fat lady eating a pastry! Last but not least, while some of the performances were excellent, others were utterly unconvincing, and characters one was presumably supposed to feel sympathy for seemed like brats.