Red paint

 I listed 10 things last night and practiced a little, and mainly I took my plain ol' Shakuhachi Yuu and the can of red paint I'd bought for this purpose and painted the inside. Painting the inside without painting the outside too is a bit of a challenge but I actually did it. 

Now I can let the thing dry for a couple of days and then put my "enhanced" one back on standby and play this one. The idea is, if I'm going to go out busking with the thing, it ought to look at least somewhat like a bamboo one. 

I had time to pack 10 things that were small enough for me not to need the bike trailer, and got out of here the usual time. The drop-offs went fine, and since they were all for the post office I went over to 99 Ranch and got a thing or two, then rode over to H Mart and locked the bike up. 

I walked over to Ross and amazingly, found a package of underwear to buy.  I'm impressed enough with them that I took the two black ones and put them in my "leaving for home" backpack when I got back. I plan to take very minimal clothing, just enough to wear and have a change or two. 

I went to Sprouts and got a bottle of d-mannose powder so I can continue to take it without the added sugar and cranberry nonsense. I then had $3 left and decided to look around. I noticed in the meat section the same skirt steak I'd bought so cheaply was very much not, now. I was just browsing, essentially, thinking there's not much trouble I can get into with $3. Then I noticed a package of "taco meat" for $2.15 and decided there *was* some trouble I can get into there with $3 and got that. 

The terminology is a bit ominous. It's beef, but the label just says "taco meat". Maybe in as much of the future as I'll see it will not matter to anyone if the meat once oinked or moo'd or meowed or barked, it's just ... taco meat. 

I decided to check by Sanmina for packing stuff even though it's a Monday and there was actually a fair amount of bubble wrap in their dumpster. I checked the other dumpsters and there wasn't anything in those, but that one had enough to justify getting out the big bag I carry with me and I stuffed it with all the bubble wrap and foam I could find. 

I was just tying the bag up and talking to myself a bit because who else am I going to talk to? Muttering about getting out of there before the zombies zero in on me. Then - an approaching zombie. "And there's the zombie" I observed, under my breath. 

Your typical never-took-care-of-himself white guy came lurching up, greeted me like he knew me (and old trick I think, this gets better) and asked about plastic bags "to keep warm". I found one for him, and one he had doubts about, "It has garbage trash in it" seemed to have another bag inside it that looked OK. 

He'd come up from Santa Cruz and since it feels like at least a year since I'd been there, I was interested. He said there are tons of tweakers, and I said that at least some years ago it was all about heroin, Vicodin, Oxycontin, opiates in general and I'd been told that the bruises on the legs of young people there are actually from injecting Mexican black tar heroin. 

So I bade him follow me to show him an area I thought he could bed down OK, plus a couple more dumpsters that might have plastic bags. He said he'd not slept for 3 days because of the tweakers, and as I was curious how he'd ended up here from Santa Cruz and tried to get him to understand how to get from here to his supposed goal, Los Angeles, he told me about how he'd been in Denver for some important photo shoot and helping that famous boxer in another city, and a relative of Marlon Brando in another, and how actually he's the nephew of Marilyn Monroe, see here's his name (something I forget Monroe) and here's the T-shirt from the photo shoot (shows me a T-shirt 3 layers in with a logo, the kind every thrift store has in plenitude) and "You see, I'm a movie star". 

I wondered at how such well-connected people could not see their way to let him sleep somewhere, and he'd gone to Berkeley to see his brother he'd not seen in 40 years but at his brother's place there are "Rules! I hate rules!". I *had* shown in a place he could stay pretty hidden for the night, and he was going deeper into his movie-stardom and connections with old-time Hollywood big names, all dead now, that's why no one will help him .... and I hopped on my bike and took off. 

I rode back here and almost right away checked to see if his story holds any water and it does not - Marilyn Monroe's actual name was something like Norma Jean Baker, and the youngest living relative is female and in her 90s. 

What if that bozo had had bad intentions? What I should have done was said, on hearing he's after plastic bags, is said something like, "There's a bunch of 'em near the bottom!" and rode off.