And you know what else? Living in San Francisco means not only that we’re the center of the disaster movie universe, but also that the tattered remains of the hippie era refuse to die here. Proof? Sunday evening was both a Super Moon (a full moon with “the closest approach the Moon makes to the Earth on its elliptical orbit, resulting in the largest apparent size of the lunar disk as seen from Earth,” thank you Wikipedia, and a term I never remember running into until recently and now which seems to turn up as regularly as a Dame Edith Farewell Tour) and a full lunar eclipse, a so-called “Blood Moon” because of the red color it takes on. Naturally all the hippie-wiccan-Burning Man types and others who don’t keep their pubes trimmed were wild for the prospect.
This being San Francisco, the fog blew in right at sunset and obscured the whole thing. All the pagans were terribly disappointed, poor dears. It’s just as well, I had planned on sacrificing a goat, but they were all sold out and Saki absolutely refused to cooperate. I had hoped that the ceremony might help unload my house in New Orleans which STILL has not sold.
What is wrong with these fatheads? It’s a great house and I’m throwing in all of my exquisite taste that I lavished on the dump for free. I don’t know, I suppose it’s just bad moon ju-ju.