Smoky San Francisco
by Robert Anderson
SAN FRANCISCO Under yesterday’s (Sept. 9, 2020) Martian-hued skies I could fantasize as Buck Rogers consulting with Dr. Huey on plans to frustrate the interplanetary plots of Ming the Merciless – and suddenly realized that I was mixing with Flash Gordon’s personnel. Thereupon, I switched my entire fantasy to Brick Bradford In The Center Of The Earth before the Hearst Syndicate could file a complaint. As Puck observed from his reclining perch atop the Seattle Times Sunday funny papers, “What fools these mortals be.”
With today’s dawn, (sept. 10) however, our Red Planet atmosphere had turned to a dull tapioca with fleeting hints of pink. Foghorns moaned, a couple of freighters were plowing through gauze at quarter-speed, and the Bay Bridge had no eastern anchor. What a set-up for over-wrought composition! As per your instruction, I will keep my windows closed.
But perhaps it is too late.
Yes, I know Ashland -- Medford, too– and what was Talent. Missed Phoenix, though I guess it will rise. (Okay, bad taste – and I hereby apologize to the victims.) I used to drive Hi-way 99, and later 5, wheeling a Volkswagen bus stuffed with kids, SF north to Longview and Seattle to see their gran’mas. /gran’pas. It was in the 1960s, early 1970s. That locale flashed by at night and there were often construction crews at work. I think of it as being in the rain. On the return trip it was late morning and, in memory, sunny. Made that trip many times. Never stopped, though.