 I remember riding my fendallus bike to La Penadria del Pueblo. Sometimes I would go alone. Sometimes I would dream I took a vuelo by the hand. I remember Pandulce tasting even sweeter after confessing my sins at St. Joseph's Catholic Church. Nothing like dulcified bread for crucified bones. And I remember standing in front of the glass displays telling El Panadero, I'll take one of these and one of those and one of these. Unlike the cool pachuco who came in asking for and the polvo, un regallo, y un hueso azucarado. I had not mastered the names of Pandulce. So imagine the thrill, imagine the authority in my chavalon bones when I returned asking for dos huesos azucarados to go. Yes, I remember Pandulce, la virgen de Guadalupe bordered by blue neon lights and how the smell of canela reminded me of abuelitos peloncillo skin. And no, I don't live in Avocado Avenue and I've never been in the vicinity of trees but I must confess de vez en cuando I would rather be un vagabundo hawking velvet avocados por los barrios de aslantejas USA. Yes, I must confess I am an avocado aficionado. I will vouch for any avocado you see avocados or not. Volsiferous, they are content to be philosophical with window sills. Visualize two avocados, two summer syllables ripening on a window sill and you visualize world peace, paz, paz. You see avocados or not equivocados, they are not into hate, do not equivocate. Avocates are not into voodoo economics. They just want a place on your Mexican plate. But what must avocados think? Mexican food is chic, it's made the New York celebrity list. It's Gucci bags next to guacamole bowls. Meanwhile, there are no revolutions on Guadalupe street. Only the blooming rose bushes by Rudy's transmission. Thank you.