Things come and go, but there is one constant in life: every Fourth of July in San Francisco, the fog will blow in sometime in the afternoon and by the time the municipal fireworks start up on the beach on the north side of town, visibility will be so poor the roman candles and such will be mere diffuse glows up in the mist and the booms will be muffled. Never the less, every year, thousand of people will clog the street of the Marina trying to get a good seat for a show that provides the excitement of listening to static.
R Man and I are, of course, too sensible for such a waste of time. We have discovered instead that the lip of canyon we live in makes a bluff just above our house from which you have an excellent, fog-free view down into the Outer Mission, Bernal Heights, Bayview and other unfashionable neighborhoods near here. While these hoods may not be stylish, they are filled with miscreants who celebrate Independence Day by setting off their own illegal fireworks. While of course I decry such antinomian behavior, I love standing up on the bluff watching the little brilliant displays erupting spontaneously down below.