Excerpt from mail sent in 1998
So I'm standing on the Berkeley BART platform, my nose buried in a book about Brooklyn Longshoremen. And all of the sudden, this woman walks in front of me. Her knees are bent; she's walking like Groucho Marx. She's looking up at me as she walks past. Once she's past me, she straightens out her knees and walks normal.
I'm often curious to know what people are reading. But I've never been so curious such that I would walk funny just so I could get my eyes under the book and look up at the cover. I wouldn't get my face into someone else's view just so I could see a book's cover.
I'd say she crossed the line.
That was the night before last.
Last night, I'm walking from the office up towards the BART station. It's kinda late, after dark. There's a woman walking the other way. She's over on my side of the sidewalk. I switch sides--just as she does. I switch again, this time adjusting my timing a little--just as she does. I again change timing, start to switch again--and she starts to switch after I did. I sweartagawd. I change my switch into a feint, pull back, stay on the same side. She completes her switch. She then shoots me a murderous look.
Like it's my fault she's so lame.
Neither of these women was sporting the Street Crazy look.
Hunting in the Hills
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