My roommate wakes up in the mornings using a cell-phone alarm that plays "California Dreamin'." And I lie in my bed, not wanting to get out from under my coverlet, listening to the Mamas and the Papas' soaring harmonies on the other side of my bedroom wall. I am wearing my flannel pajamas, the same ones I wear in the wintertime. Outside it is foggy, a breeze blowing from the ocean up the long flat boulevards. The thermometer at the bank says that it is 57 degrees outside as I wait for the MUNI train, but it feels even colder. It is July 21 and I am wearing wool pants and--yes--my winter coat.
And I think, "Is it possible to be California dreamin' when you already live in California, and it's the middle of summer? Shouldn't that, according to the rules of logic, be absurd?"
But that is what this time of year in San Francisco does to you.
We all know what Mark Twain said (or is said to have said)...
Update: And I discovered that the Chron just did a "Fog Week" series of special reports. Ha! Love it!
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