Cold, Grey City Of Love

Newspaper columnist Herb Caen* had a gift of making the ordinary unique, and the unique ordinary. He wrote of the nuances of San Francisco's peculiar seasons, much as Mark Twain did when he claimed, "The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco." This morning's walk seemed a little grayer than usual, especially since it's August, and it is the summer of my malcontent. Certainly my travails are trivial, compared to the suffering and despair that surround me. But I permit myself a wallow in it, but only for a short period of time.

These homeowners found a clever use of neon when they numbered their house. This isn't the photo I really wanted, but considering my mood, it will do nicely.

I am always amazed by the resourcefulness of some home builders, especially those who seek to redefine the concept of level. This house is located near the end of a street where builders finally decided that enough was enough, and that they would try to find flatter lots to build upon.

This makeshift shelter wasn't on Tank Hill when I was here earlier in the year. What puzzles me is the location and the construction. It looks like the play shelters we made as kids playing in empty lots, but the branches seem too thick and heavy to be a child's play project. Then too, the area was clean, dispelling the theory that it was a homeless encampment. Maybe there's a story here, but it would take the genius like Herb to bring it to life.

*Herb Caen (1916-1997) was awarded a special Pulitzer Prize that called him the "voice and conscience" of San Francisco, which in his column he referred to as a "pullet surprise". 

Lonely Dog, Lonely Boy

I've found somebody in my neighborhood who has solved his, or her, "I need a dog" dilemma. At first glance, we see an adorable beagle puppy searching the morning sky for the meaning of life. Closer inspection reveals that the cute canine is a stuffed toy doggie sitting next to a realistic cutout of a long-haired companion of undetermined parentage. No barking, no accidents, no destroyed furniture, just the joy of knowing that these loyal canines are waiting patiently for her, or his, owner's return.

It's hard to hide my dog envy. Our family lost our last best family dog in mid 1970s, and I never got over the loss. To this day, I imagine myself walking a fawn-colored boxer puppy, forever playful, forever loyal, and always eager to please. I'm fearful that no dog this side of heaven will ever fill the void left by his passing.