I wake up every morning and ask myself not about the meaning of life, but what the F is going on with the weather. It's not debilitating heat. So, I suppose pearls of gratitude should be dribbling from my mouth, instead of this sophomoric whining. Whatever. I like the sound of my voice as it crawls down the blackboard. A bank of fog envelopes the area, and stays and stays; maybe we have lift-off by 2pm if we're lucky. Like Anchorage in November. Five hours of daylight. Is this some kind of Palin joke? A plague on both our houses: the East Bay, and SF? My summer tomatoes in the back yard,which should be plated on mozzarella cheese, drizzled with olive oil, and fresh basil, or crushed and sauced are neon green. A pleasant color for tomatillos, not 'Early Girls.' And while I'm on it, and rolling, I want my fracking skater-boy shorts days! And my flip-flop accessories out of moth balls before it's fall.
Onto the international world. China. What's wrong with my bros (I have to say bros since well, you-know there's the gender thing there) in the Henan Province? If you're plying your wares in the oldest profession, and are picked up for prostitution, the police shackle and parade you like spoils of war, the prisoners (women), barefoot through the crowded streets circa Rome BC. Cheerfully referred to as 'shame parades' there has been so much outrage and public outcry, that the Ministry of Public Security has demanded a stop to the public humiliation. As if...
Prop 8. Struck down last week in Cali. But most likely moving to another venue, the Supreme Court. Exhausting. But full of vinegar and piss. Limp wristed gays. Bull dykes. Uh-huh. A victory. So, bring it. What else you got?
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