Suddenly I'm focused on 'Red'

It must be plum season. Always my favorite time of the year in the Mission - and as the lucky owner of an old plum tree in the back yard, something I look forward to with great interest every year. I even plan my vacation around the fruiting days so as not to miss a single orb, barring the odd one or two that get snagged by birds or some mystery animal, most probably a beady-eyed denizen of the shadows. Only this week my suspicions were confirmed that nothing in the local fruit stalls comes close to the sweet intensity of the taste and flavor from a garden plum! There is absolutely no comparison. I feel sorry for all the sad chumps out there who think the red balls of 'Blah' they take home from the colorful veggie stands are even the same league. But then I always have had delusions of fruit grandeur.

Call me weird-but I notice these things

I think it must be my new fascination with that peculiar, oddball fad in the Mission of 'discreet propaganda'. So discreet in fact, that most people's gaze tends to float blithely by without so much as a thought. Maybe I have too much time on my hands - anyway I thought it worthy of a mention. Don't ask me what it means - but somehow I do get a commentary in my head - and it tallies with my own street internal dialogue. 

A MOMA Moment - in the Mission

This is probably more of a unplanned Group Art piece. The colorful saga of order despoiled and restored and despoiled and restored in a never-ending battle of guile. I'm intrigued by the weekly shenanigans - It's just the shits if you own the property.

Warts up Pussy Kat?

OK I dare you to come in and browse. The bookshop on Valencia Street showcasing 'The Zombie' monthly theme  couldn't have come up with a better sales girl. The taunting cleavage - that 'come hither' eye contact. This Kitty has it all. Prrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

Wonder if I'll ever send postcards again?

They were marvelous things weren't they, postcards? You could sit on the deck of the Mauritania headed for London from New York, like my dad used to in the 50's, and scribble whatever was on your mind-which was probably elegant cocktails with pagan-headed swizzle sticks, while you puffed away on a cigarette from an azure tin of BOAC/VC10 promo specials and flicked silken ash to the deck (the wind always took care of it). They say travel used to be something of a glamorous adventure, you talked about it in glowing terms for years to come-Oh well...