IT'S JUST THE HUMIDITY

The weather these past few days has been cold (nigh fifties to low sixties), so it's been quite enjoyable. Naturally I function better at the lower end of the scale, so I've actually felt healthy again. This isn't Miami. Where despite the zesty Latin atmosphere and jiggly slags, as well as all those narco-trafficantes and Cuban exiles being all Trumpite, ooh, I'd probably be sick and tired of the heat and merengue and greasy sandwiches.

Parts of Texas are worse. Over a hundred °F, and rednecks stretching to the horizon.
Even New York is too hot. Those pizza-snarfing commies are suffering.
Most of the country is like Sacramento right now.
Very hot and bad smelling.

This is why everyone from the rest of country swills 32 ounce soft drinks, is fat and diabetic, and spends their waking hours in a hammock on the back porch, with the hard plastic cord netting leaving inflamed diamond patters in their sweaty purulent backsides that attract nits and chiggers, lazily fanning themselves with a copy of Recliner Magazine which they were just reading for mental exercise. It's hard being an American teenager in Summer.

San Francisco was very nice today. A high of sixty four degrees.
Right now it's cooler. Foggy, and around fifty six.

Don't you wish you could be here?
Too bad.

While the bookseller and I were drinking at the third place -- the karaoke joint was filled with screaming half-wits and the second place was already closed -- we ran into an old friend who expressed how chuffed he was to be soon selling oysters. He has considerable food-service experience, and this will be the third or fourth restaurant he's started.
People in the industry gravitate toward him.
Naturally I wish him well.

Before meeting up at the burger joint earlier, I had naturally smoked my pipe down in C'town. Noticed a loony posturing ad striking poses that suggested exorcism in progress, please do not disturb, but not being a daemon or spectral haunting, I decided not to attract his attention. In this city it is often best to avoid eye-contact. Which might explain the large number of local residents on the spectrum. Here, they're normal. Neurotypicals often feel frustrated and out of it. Their deep spirituality and artistic personalities cannot be expressed unless they talk to people. When they do, they come across as nuts.



Several days ago I realized that I've been approaching my medical appointments all wrong.
I usually schedule them for first thing in the morning, because most of the patients any of my doctors see are elderly Russians and Chinese, who just cannot show up on time for beans. Which means I get seen promptly and am out of there with plenty of time for snackiepoos. But at that hour I'm usually at my best. "How are you doing?" "I feel full of dynamite, Doctor, absolutely splendid!" But really, I should show up much later, by which time I would have something to complain about.

If I ate typical American breakfasts, it would be different. All that fried starchy sugary crap would give me acid-indigestion and obstructed bowels, and oh boy would I have something to complain about. Any hour of the day. Young people these days! My lawn, my lawn!
They're moving into the neighborhood! The HOA will hear about this!
In my day, you could get a good cigar for fifty cents!
Those hippies ruined everything!



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