Scrabble at Noon

I can barely relate how truly weird it is to see three grown men fist pumping over a triple-word-score. Back slaps and congratulations all around the second hand store style table. But there it was immediately in front of me. I'm perched in a rustic-chic coffee house somewhere in the inner sanctum of Pacific Heights. Primarily white prepsters rock this joint...as well as the soccer Moms that sired them. My half assed and yet somehow full time employment at the beginning of this transposition to The Bay Area has afforded me a glimpse at the not-so-working class of San Francisco; at least as it manifests near the corner of Pine & Fillmore. The game continues now, with fighting no doubt over the integrity of a word. There is a three quarters empty (psychologists cue to chime in) pitcher of local draught sitting there with them. In any other city I'd have associated this gathering with a baseball game or even an especially bush league poker session. But not here. Too genteel for those kinds of blue collar distraction. It's even a travel version of the game. Black satine bag. Little itty bitty holders for the letters, which are themselves scaled down to fit the smaller board. Jee Zus. This scene is a metaphor for something but I am too sun bleached and beer battered to come up with it. The deterioration of mankind seems a bit harsh. The natural tendency of soft people living in a soft town is too provincial. The likely answer: Something to do with my own twisted view of the world at this very moment.