A sense of foreboding

Email subject heading from Yoshi's San Francisco.
Coming soon: The Music of the Grateful Dead & Pink Floyd.

I'm not sure they intended it as a threat, but that's certainly how I'm taking it.

A small collection

1. I've not listened to Sinead O'Connor since 1987, so learning she has a new album stirred some nostalgia. I'm listening to it on NPR, but the opening love song involves a buggy ride [seriously. "It's so warm inside when he takes me for a buggy ride," which I suppose might be intended as innuendo, but I'm not sure I ever want sex to be referred to as a buggy ride, so that doesn't help matters.] and the second song has the lyric, "for so long I've been a junkie; I ought to wrap it up and mind my monkeys." I think, like many people I knew in 1987, Sinead and I have grown apart.

3. I discovered today that someone rides their bike to work and then hangs their sweat-soaked garb to air out on the rack where we hang the tablecloths. This person perhaps never had a mother. Also? Ewwww.

2. If your dress no longer fits after you have had half a burrito, your dress really didn't fit to begin with. In case I forget this lesson in the future, maybe I should keep a caftan in my desk drawer.

3. Wait! A caftan you say? Well, you're in luck. When I went to purchase the aforementioned burrito, I passed the mystery store on the corner. (I have mentioned it before. It regularly goes out of business and then reopens under a different name with the exact same merchandise. It is currently called Things Lucky.) Displayed outside, they usually have several belly-dancing-type ensembles, but today they also had yellow caftan, the entire front of which features a life-like rendering of Bob Marley smoking a joint. I don't know if there is a more perfect "I'm in the Haight and I also accidentally ate too much" outfit. I should probably buy it right away.

Suggestions

Were I to arrange my life as informed by the radio commercials I hear every morning, I would wake from a restful night's sleep on my new mattress; drive in my newly insured car (saving hundreds of dollars!) to the warm, supportive fertility clinic where the doctors sound like members of a cult. Ultimately, though, none of this would matter since I would soon thereafter die of carbon monoxide poisoning. Apparently, it can happen to anyone, anywhere, anytime--regardless of the quality of your mattress.

Environmental

Standing in front of three possible receptacles, peering at a cup made of mystery material, it suddenly occurred to me that up until, say, the advent of metal being used for stuff, the question: "is this compostable?" was superfluous. Because--guess what--pretty much everything on the planet was compostable.

Aside from the fear, ignorance, pestilence, war and relentless labor, it must have been quite a carefree, restful time.

Treading carefully

A young woman with long hair, wearing an ankle-length skirt and somewhat eccentric combination of patterns, and carrying a sunflower is walking toward me in the company of a neatly coiffed young man, all in black, walking a bicycle. As I pass them I hear:

"Why don't you like Honey-Boo?" she asks plaintively. "What's wrong with Honey-Boo?"
He smiles diplomatically, "Well..."

Let us hope for the sake of the man--to say nothing of the currently nameless creature--that it is a pet and not a child.