I’ve lived in San Francisco for 33 years now, half my life. And still, occasionally I am struck by the beauty of the light here. It’s crystal clear and bright and weightless, if weight makes any sense when you’re talking about light. The shadows it casts are so crisp they look like they’ve been painted. Some days the sky is so unlimitedly blue, it’s like a peak at infinity.
There’s plenty of theories about why the light is like that, most of them crackpot. One of them involves ice crystals way up in the air refracting the light. That seems almost poetic, but aren’t there ice crystals way up in the air everywhere? Others revolve around geography, the fact that we’re perched on the edge of the Pacific somehow means the sunlight is, I don’t know, washed? Like I said, crackpot.
The last couple of weeks have been gray and rainy and cold, classic winter weather. I’m not complaining, I like the change and it’s nice sometimes to have temperatures that make sweaters so appealing. Plus we’ve been living in a drought for years and every rainstorm is something to be relished. But yesterday was a break in that weather pattern and that’s something to be relished too.
I just found out my beloved Peet’s Cafe, to which I retire every day for lattes and avoiding eye contact, is going to close 3 hours early tomorrow because they don’t have enough staff to stay open. I’ve been hearing about this kind of labor shortage and I was sympathetic with the workers until it actually affected me directly, of course. Fucking slackers, get back to work. This is my definition of an crisis. They shrugged off my suggestion that they contact the National Guard. I’m not surprised; plenty of my best suggestions go wasted just because of a lack of vision.
I have to go set up my bunker.
Guys with whom I wouldn’t mind hunkering down.
I remember that dresser form 1994, the dick is unfamiliar, however.
Sometimes, shaving or waxing or whatever the hell is going on here, is so unfortunate.
Black bedrooms are always a good idea, I don’t care if you’re a vampire or not.
The wrought iron pattern on the balcony rail is called a “guilloche.” The more you know.
Give him the ol’ one two.