Pass by and you are cursed to spend the next several blocks trying to compose a portmanteau out of “food cart” and “pedophile.”
Capturing these transitory moments for you, San Francisco.
Fresh horsey.
Lost Weekend Video, telling it like it is.
Sweet ride.
Today, ping pong. Tomorrow, tetherball. Next week, a game to the death played with a prime number of leather-bound balls filled with sawdust. Balls, balls, balls.
The prized matroyshka chip of Puerto Alegre.
How many layers can you count?
Sometimes I think the Mission is trying too hard. In reality, it’s the rest of us who’re slacking off.
Desperate or charming, I hope at the very least that she appreciates your manifold uses of punctuation. Creepy, though, to use a girl’s name too much.
Excuse me, sir with the iPad propped up next to your cocktail, is this yours?
Self-Divorce is looking better everyday.
Remember everything that went right with the WPA?
And heaven knows I’m miserable now.
I was busy shooting this when my walking around companion nudged me and said, “hey, there’s your man.” Apart from proving that I require a photo assistant, it meant that I could engage the subject without fear of what happened the last few times I talked to Frank.
I’m wondering if I should consider this man the heir to Chu’s throne in some small way. He speaks of god separating the cows and pigs, and carries a sign. There can be only one Frank Chu, but I believe the city has room enough for sign-wielding messiahs.
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