Coffee House

It was Thanksgiving and Godia was alone. All her friends like the owners of the cafe, gone home to family in the mid-west. So I invited her up to our place on Winfield where Sonoma would bake a turkey. Godia was a bit overpowering and during dinner, and I thought she was funny, told nurses stories of hospital blood and gore, while I watched Sonoma and my young son turn various colorful shades of anguish. Well that was a mistake.

It was great times. Met a lot of people and so many that were around for just a day or a week that I can't remember. There was a gallery owner and I had exhibited with him as mentioned, as well as my neighbor Mel, the best water colorist I have ever seen in America. And he died and no one will ever know. The gallery owner, he had a choice between a workshop oriented gallery like San Francisco Public Broadcasting used to be, or all puff and glitz. He went for puff like SFPB and I quit with him. He came in to the cafe that one day to tell me he had been wrong, but it was all up in smoke now and besides he had not long to live. SFPB never did admit they were wrong. Well they never knew they were right.

So what with the mad phone caller and my persecution hardly noticeable, but there was a decline in my faith in humanity after, and with the gallery-puff debacle, I decided to give it up, the societal altruistic pretensions. And besides I had gotten a dog that needed to be walked in the morning and taken up on the hill, not down to the coffee shop tied up to a parking meter all freaked out with the traffic. So after seven years I quit the coffee house and ended up here.

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