Growing up in San Francisco, I experienced summer as the most alienating season of the year on account of the fog. The rest of the country is hanging out at the community pool, playing in sprinklers/fire hydrants, waiting for the ice cream truck. But you -- you special bohemian San Francisco kid, you -- are living inside a giant, lonely cloud.
Of course, you're not allowed to wish you could hang out at the pool because that's just so bourgeois and suburban. You're lucky! Don't you know that? You're growing up in freaking San Francisco. You can take Muni down to Haight Street and buy yourself a vintage pea coat or nurse a cappuccino at the Blue Danube while writing sad things in tiny print in your journal. Or check out the groovy poetry books at City Lights! Or smoke clove cigarettes at Coit Tower! Or watch a documentary about an avant garde porn director at the Roxie! With such cultural riches who needs the sun?
I hate it when I get sarcastic. I like San Francisco, just not in the summer.
Just checked on the kombucha. It has a translucent skin all across the top like Jell-O, and there are no foul odors emanating. This is good news.
Tonight: David Tanis' Supper of the Lamb.