Twenty-four hours.

8:00 pm, Thursday: Rasputina at the Great American Music Hall. Cellos like electric guitars crossed with Ye Olde World, and 'Barracuda' t'boot. Fantastic.



11:30 pm: Fully invested in my favorite macaroni and cheese and spinach salad at Sparky's with my sweetie-pie in the Castro.

Post-macaroni and cheese 'til 2 am: Eleven miles to sweet Oakland becomes a highway from hell because of the Bay Bridge earthquake retrofit. Read: five lanes smooshed into one. I sulk in the passenger seat and hate everyone, especially the Seismic Safety Project.

4:30 am: I wake up to rumbling and my bed jerking violently. It's a 4.2 earthquake in Oakland. Point taken.

11:30 am: Roll out of bed for haircut at noon. Eat dirt crack, a handful of perfect California blueberries, and a succulent backyard peach to make me happy.

12 noon: Haircut. Attempt to talk Korean politics with hairdresser. Smacked down with talk of the perils of getting coffee in South Korea instead.

1:00 pm: I drink coffee for the second time in 4 years.

5:00 pm: Eat Vietnamese pork goodness. Get sleepy. Try to sleep on couch while hubby rebags hundreds of comic books we finally took out of storage. Fail.

7:00 to 8:00 pm: Take a walk. Peaches and Cream. Lemon. Vanilla. Noyaux. Better.

And now: I suppose it's all well and good now that Bernard has made them a joke, but one still has to say WTF?! No way.

Twenty-Four Hours.