http://garrygolden.com/wp-includes/block-supports/
As I was wandering around uptown looking at the streets I used to know so well – Birch and Short and Fern and Oak – I heard a high-pitched voice on a microphone crying out: “I have bananas… I have … strawberries… I have… asparagus… I have pineapples.” I turned the corner and saw a pickup in the middle of the block. It was painted with various vegetables on a background of red and black, and said, “Mr. Okra.” People came out of their houses, white and black, and stood around the pickup to buy fruit. There were not many customers, so this was hardly a fad or popular sensation, but it was obvious that for some this was the way they “made their groceries.” I picked up a quart of Pontchatoula strawberries myself. A skinny white mother, young child on hip, came up to the truck’s driver and made small talk. “Hey there Mr. Okra how are you?” Mr. Okra seemed a bit sunk in his chair, looking old and unhealthy (and quite rotund). A younger, very happy-looking black man handled all the business in the back. Again I found myself thinking, “How come New Orleans does everything more interestingly than everyplace else in America?” Apparently there’s a documentary about Mr. Okra. [The lens on my camera was a bit smudged, but the pics are worth posting.]
http://roi-mi.com/uncategorized/1470/ Mr. Okra 2014.
Robin to Mr. Okra's Batman.
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