Save Us A Spot
Thursday. Back from breakfast and reading the papers after ten, the sun shining (the birds singing, the Worph-Moppets howling in the trees). We're out of water here in the west, but the weather's great and the head-sinus thing seems to be behaving itself.
There's some talk about meeting later at Harrington's and I suspect I will, although the idea of drinking Guinness for more than a hour or two is getting less interesting as I see how these sessions tend to turn out. I'm becoming a wet blanket. Now if we were meeting at Roy's? Hmmm. Am I reacting to the trip, the necessity to park downtown, to take BART? Is that not what I did yesterday? Was I not in the same area, was I not walking but a block from Harrington's front door?
Without going in, you'll notice.
Well indeed. There's got to be something else. There's got to be more. Drinking fruit flavored beverages with little umbrellas on a beach in Boca Raton comes to mind.
You've never been to Boca Raton.
Hell, I had to check just now to confirm it's located in Florida.
It was noted in the press that Alton Kelly died June 1st in Petaluma after a long illness. Kelley was an original member of the Family Dog and, along with fellow poster artist and partner Stanley Mouse, created much of the poster art that attracted people to the San Francisco scene of the sixties, me among them. He and Mouse had promised to do the fourth cover for The Rip Off Review of Western Culture before it folded in the seventies so I'd met the both of them on a number of occasions, although it could hardly be said that I knew Kelley other than as a fan and one who admired his history and his art. Sixty-seven. Time passes quickly and the underground psychedelic scene is long gone; was gone, really before it started. Such is life. Be well, Alton Kelley. Save us a spot.