Sky Rains Tadpoles Over Japan

If you don't know much about San Francisco, it's probably confusing to listen to those of us who live here, as we alternatively mourn and celebrate summer's comings and goings all through the months people in most of the country have a fairly good idea about the general range of weather tomorrow will bring.



Not us. Not here. It's enough to drive a perfectly sane person crazy.



A few days of cold, windy fog subjects us to Mark Twain's bitter truth.



All of a sudden, the earth's forces, satisfied that we have been taught our lesson, recede and leave in their wake as lovely a version of true summer as exists on earth.



Our fruits can resume ripening; our flowers open their petals; our girls put on halter tops and shorts -- basically everything that makes summer summer happens here, too.



It's rather like a Monty Python routine, you know, where the mighty Canadian lumbermen sing along in tune, then break into confusion and disarray, and then re-form to sing well again.



Try to hold on to those normal-type things -- a sense of time, a sense of season, a sense of what to expect -- in this place at this time of year is about as possible as being able to blog about baby frogs falling from the sky in Japan.

"Sky Rains Tadpoles Over Japan."

I'm not kidding, and I know it sounds biblical, or at least like the scene in that great movie, "Magnolia."

But it is true. Read it and weep.