Chowder Down

Some of you may recall a similar incident from some time back, concerning porridge, a bus to Broadway shopping centre and some smirks from a cheeky fag. Proves that no matter how much Zoo thinks zie has changed, well, some things always remain the same.

Fisherman's Wharf. A wondrous wander through the Musee Mechanique, a big hall full of old arcade games- think gypsies that pick your fortune, all manner of mechanised dioramas, pinball machines, and the famous Laughing Sal (deliciously creepy somehow), then a quick dash about Pier 39 and some clam chowder by the water. Raining a little, but still risk sitting on a park bench, juggling big sourdough bowl of chowder, big bag of shopping from the thrift store, drink, and umbrella. Manage okay, barely spill any on my scarf or tie, feed rest of bread to giant birds, knock over soda (but not on myself) and given the state of my hangover and the drizzle it all seems to have gone quite well. Walk back to the bus stop, stopping to look in shop windows and chat to people and then as I am waiting for the number 49 to Mission I realise...

There is a patch of dried chowder on my cheek. Clam chowder is white-ish, and creamy. Yes, that's right, you can imagine what it looks like. Classy.

Still, to be grateful for small mercies it is fortunate that I noticed before I headed to the Lone Star. And that it was only the base, and not the lumpy bits.