Please save your complaints about our summer fog for someone else. I kind of love it. Cool and bracing as a crisp martini, its saline, marine breezes always remind me that the mighty Pacific is rolling a few miles away. It turns a hike through Mt. Tam redwoods into a dreamscape. The city softens, blurs, almost vanishes under the fog’s grey blankets. And then at noon the sun appears beatifically, just like the opening shot of the “Angels in America” film where the voiceover asks, “What is heaven like?” as the clouds part over the Bay and he answers, “Like San Francisco.”
As sportswriters scramble to express in words the glory of the Warriors, I doubt they could top the New Yorker’s 92-year old Roger Angell who described watching Madison Baumgarner as “like feeling an expertly administered epidural nip a couple of vertebrae and deliver bliss.”
Don’t get me wrong. I know the Bay Area is in dire need of housing but rehabbing Treasure Island into a residential community is just inches this side of madness. Getting on and off the isle is not the worst part. It’s the wind. The velocity there is non-negotiable. Perfect for sailing but not so much for anyone who wants to walk across the street without being blown away. It appears, however, that ground is being broken and it is too late to go back to the drawing board.
More bad ideas:
Microsoft Word’s self-correcting spelling on computers. I write “feast”, they change it to “feet”.
Kombocha flavored soap.
Having to sign receipts after using charge cards.
Public address systems you can’t hear in noisy BART stations.
Brand new vintage anything
I have always thought that if our country could survive G.W.Bush we could survive anything. Now I am not so sure.