THINKING ABOUT THE LITTLE BALLS

In the two weeks since July Fourth there have been odd booming sounds in the middle of the night, as the local midthirties something fratboy teenagers give in to their explosive instincts and set alight their carefully hoarded fireworks. Which they held onto for nearly two whole weeks. When they were still living in the frozen wastelands of Minnesota and New Hampshire, they managed to keep a snowball in the freezer for nearly a month.

What will they do when the typhoons hit? Put aside a bucket of water?


It's a good thing there are never any floods on Nob Hill. I don't think I could handle fratboys or alligators swimming down the street and popping out of storm drains.

And definetely not just after my first cup of coffee when I'm walking around the neighborhood dodging chihuahuas and those dogs that look like space aliens. French bulls. Speaking of which, why do you never see crossbreed offspring of those two repulsive types?
Do they perhaps find each other as nasty as we find them?

There are little smears all over the pavement.

It's a pity there are no floods.
Or Typhoons.

The past two weeks have been rather windy in the afternoons, which makes smoking a pipe outdoors challenging. There have been times when I've caught myself muttering how I hate this weather before correcting myself; at least it's not like Stockton or Modesto, where the temperature will be over a hundred by mid-day, and southern belles will wilt in the heat moaning pitifully in a tragic voice "whatever shall we do, whatever shall we do?"

In SF it's probably going to be sixty five or sixty six degrees today.

No need for ice cubes in the bowl of oatmeal.

Tapioca pudding popsicles.



Codicilary note: Oatmeal is not something I eat, that's purely for constipated Scotsmen and similar sufferers. Large tapioca balls, such as in boba drinks, are nearly indigestible; you'll need that oatmeal. Sometimes I put tiny tapioca balls in a cold beverage though.



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