Am sitting in my usual Kitsilano Starbucks having my usual beverage, and watching the world go by. A 50-something guy who looked particularly casual (perhaps on the way home from his yoga class) just walked by wearing a beret. Actually it was not really a full beret. More like a faux beret. In fact, it was really a cap that when worn backwards as this retrosporty fellow had it, gave the impression of being a beret. Either way. I digress, the point is it looked like a beret.
For some reason I have a distinct distrust or fear of men with berets, unless it is part of a military uniform. I suppose I do not fear them so much, as I figure they may somehow be more in touch with their feminine side or overly stylish, and therefore perhaps less potentially dangerous in any sort of physical altercation. I may not fear them, but I do distrust them. Why is this I wonder?
Could it be because I think they may be secretly French? This is possible. After all I do have some minor distrust of the French, as I did recently get stuck for 6 months in a French island in the south pacific, while I extricated my father from the avaricious tentacles of the French tax man, and myself from the Kafkaesque French bureaucratic nightmare that had me trapped. Eventually I did prevail and escape, but it colored me somehow. Some people fear the Americans. I fear the French.
Anyways, for whatever reason, I find the beret troubling. Just like people playing the flute, or riding unicycles in public. I distrust them all.
I checked online and it looks like the stock market is up smartly today. Always a good thing. A bunch of kids from the local High School are now streaming in. More girls than guys. Quite a gaggle of them. Some pretty, some not. All shapes and sizes, and many quite noisy.
Where do the high school guys go? Apparently not so much to the Starbucks. Are they eating pizza up the road? Playing video games? Chasing skirts? One can only hope. High school kids are funny. Some of them look nearly like adults, but typically speaking, it is an awkward age. Not one I would care to repeat myself. They have my sympathy.