Mark in Pleasanton informs me that for several days earlier this month, the outside temperature at dawn has been twenty-eight degrees. It could have been somewhere else, I'm not entirely sure where he and his spouse live.
TWENTY EIGHT DEGREES!
He mentioned this after another person suggested I should take the opportunity to visit Holland again, now that I have a bit of time. I explained that they're having the opposite of a heat-wave in the Netherlands right now, and I dislike cold-weather intensely. Which is why I live in California.
Unfortunately, I live in the wrong part of California.
San Francisco approximates the Arctic.
With howling wolves.
Still. Twenty eight degrees. That's bitter. About the only thing you want to do when you pad downstairs in your fuzzy bathrobe and fluffy pink rabbit slippers is turn on the coffee, open the back door to let in the foxes and raccoons that are patiently waiting out there, tell them to raid the cat's supper dish and keep quiet while doing so, then shut the door again.
The cat has some weird friends. I swear one of them visited the chicken coop. No, not for food. For warmth. Nothing says winter comfort better than the sweaty press of hot-blooded panicky birds. A moving featherbed.
Pity it smells so bad.
Rolling in the snow at dawn gets most of the frowst off, but still.
Once you've done that you are chilled once more.
Dammit, when IS grumpus gonna open the kitchen door?
I'm freezing out here!
Later on you go into the living room to plonk at the computer, where you discover that the raccoons and foxes are now curled up on the couch, sleeping off their hangovers. They drool and mutter while they doze.
It's like a having a bunch of college kids over.
Live and lithe, with bushy tails.
And bad breath.
Maybe I shouldn't have put the Dominoes pizza in the cat dish. Nothing is worse than carnivore with stale anchovy coming out of its mouth.
Time to light up a pipe and chase those fishy blues away.
Yeah, a strong English blend. Germain & Son.
Latakia, Turkish, Virginia.
That good.
Dang, twenty eight degrees?!?
I'm staying in San Francisco.
Despite everyone with vile non-smoker breath, gibbering flocks of do-gooders, sincere intellectuals, undiscovered artists, and the feral vegans.
This pipe smoker ain't crazy.
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