Alvarado
Avenue
no
less
than
electric
this
very
brisk
summer
evening.
Pacific
air
intoxicating
against
a
backdrop
of
animated
caricatures
that
clog
clubs
and
bistros.
Britannia
Arms
crammed
with
Monday
Night
Football
fans.
It
is
a
beer-‐injected
bash.
Sports
hogs
galore,
the
mostly
twenty
something
crowd
engaged
in
a
libido-‐release
orgy.
Unlimited
Fish
and
Chips
has
lured
me
here.
This
is
my
first
venture
to
a
new
place
since
moving
to
Monterey
where
I’m
able
to
indulge
one
of
my
favorite
fetishes.
After
a
grueling
day
in
which
a
co-‐worker
was
scolded
by
his
boss
and
sent
home
without
pay,
I’m
here
to
add
a
little
merriment
and
about
an
inch
to
my
waist,
but
then
to
fast
it
off.
Eagles
partisans
raise
the
roof
as
a
halfback
scampers
on
a
long
touchdown
run,
and
I
dip
another
piece
of
battered
fish
into
creamy
tartar
sauce.
From
my
long-‐legged
stool
I
glance
to
the
right
and
notice
an
incessantly
fat
man
sitting
patiently
by
himself
at
a
table
with
a
nice
view
of
Alvarado
through
the
window.
Not
even
Jennifer
Garant
in
all
of
her
absurd
paintings
of
overstuffed
bakers,
golfers
and
merry
dancers
has
depicted
such
a
grotesquely
obese
creature
as
this.
Caesar
of
obtuse
gluttony,
three
hundred
pound
man-‐walrus,
stepchild
of
flesh’s
worst
abominations
whose
ego
systematically
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