The sea lions are out at Seal Rock, barking madly at whatever it is that has caught their tiny eyes and an IRS agent will be squinting her beady eyes over my 2008 real estate paperwork on Wednesday, so putting words together on a screen for some future publication seems somehow superfluous. (I'm on the fourth draft of something or other.)
Riding the bike around Lake Merced in the morning, as I do every morning, is off, too. Yesterday my brakes didn't work in this soupy fog - not at all. I tried to stop for the N-Judah on La Playa and nothing - not even a squeak or a slowing down. Instead, armed with excuses, I stayed in and finished the last bit of Kenyan roast, clicked on every twitter link that looked interesting and looked out the window at other, more energetic people exercising at the park. For some reason right now there are about a dozen high school-aged kids standing in the crosswalk on Fulton, facing traffic in a line like they're practicing for some future protest. They're yelling something but I can't understand it. It sounds like, "Ah-Oooo! Bacon!" Like kids, they're really confident, standing tall, arms outstretched like they're in front of a tank at Tiananmen square until the light changes. Without hesitation, they dash to the curb, laughing when they stop there, back to being kids.
I could spend all day (not) doing taxes.