Fine weather for creepy melancholia - Mark Morford
I have enjoyed many terrific birthdays in San Francisco. I have, if memory serves and it sometimes does, nearly always celebrated my January birthday indoors, perhaps luxuriating in a fine hotel, or soaking in a hot, steaming body of water, or rolling around in a very large bed surrounded by whisky and laughter and various slippery things, all due to the chilly and invariably drizzling, foggy, sleeting, flagrantly unpleasant winter weather outside, weather that has always slammed January in San Francisco like a familiar and necessary refrain.
Not this year. This year, I was sunbathing. This year I was splayed out on a tiny, hidden gem of a beach down in Half Moon Bay, sipping champagne, wearing nothing but underwear and a smile alongside a gorgeous companion equally – though significantly more beautifully – unadorned, both of us marveling at the 74-degree temperature, the glass-calm ocean and the utter surreality of the dry, warm, lightly breezed air.
We were, quite obviously, enjoying ourselves immensely. We were gasping at the stillness, the clear and simple heat, the ache and bite of the thirsty sand, repeating over and over that we couldn’t believe it was actually winter even as, deep down, we both could sense it – as I’m sure you can, too: Something is wrong.
It’s not supposed to be like this. It’s not supposed to be warm, dry and sunny in the Bay Area for the entire month of January, and probably February, and most of December, and who knows how much longer. Not here. Not now. Not ever.
The rest: http://blog.sfgate.com/morford/2014/01/21/fine-weather-for-creepy-melancholia/
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