It has been long and long since I updated. First I will tell the astonishing story of my trip to San Francisco, and then I will rail at hurricanes.

I find the weather in San Francisco lovely. It is cool and foggy and windy and the sun breaks through the fog only just often enough to remind you it's there. Unlike Florida, where it is hot and muggy and when the sun isn't trying to broil you the atmosphere is spawning 145 mph windstorms. But that's a story for later in the post.

No, fuck it. I'm going to rant about hurricanes first.

Here in the limp penis-shaped state south of Georgia we sort of dangle into the warm soupy tropical waters of the southern Atlantic and the Gulf of Mexico. This is a very vulnerable position. Every year our most tender bits are threatened by, on average, two major hurricanes and a few minor ones. Hurricanes aren't that bad, as natural disasters go, because you can predict they will come at a particular time of year, chart a course for them, and evacuate everyone in the way.

Except the little bastards don't stay on course, and inevitably they hit some part of our bits we weren't expecting. Often, as this time, they hit exactly the areas to which large numbers of people had evacuated. This annoys me not so much because I myself suffered massive amounts of damage from the storm-- no indeed; my area was the one which ducked. Some friends of mine, and relatives of friends, were in the area which was standing behind us and got hit in the face, however. No, it annoys me because it is one more piece of evidence that human beings should not live in this state. Mosquitoes are clearly destined to remain the dominant lifeform.

But did I enjoy San Francisco? I bloody fucking did. This time two years from now, perhaps, you may expect a post on the relative merits of hurricanes as compared to earthquakes. Until then, expect me to romanticize the City much too much.