coco crisp

It's hot as balls in the Bay Area. Tom points out that balls at optimal temperature are a little bit cooler than 98.6 degrees, so that's not an inaccurate thing to say. At 8:30 this morning I sheathed my thighs in crinkling, ruined spandex, slathered myself with sunblock and joined old old friends for a bike ride around the Portola Valley Loop. That's the twenty-some mile circuit that goes behind Stanford and allows a tour of the chaparral-covered hills that comprise the mid-Peninsula open space regime. At this time of year, the once-green chaparral has dried into wildfire-friendly golden bowls. There's one great stretch of Sand Hill Road you hit coming off Portola Road where it's downhill for about two miles and you are at high enough of an elevation to see the foothills on both sides of you and the Santa Cruz Mountains behind you, and in front of you a quick bunch of buildings called Stanford/Palo Alto and then, in the hazy distance, the salt marshes, the southern stretch of the bay, Fremont and Union City and finally the hills in the East Bay in the distance. It's downhill for a long span and it crosses the freeway on-ramp toward the end, so all you can do is cling to your handlebars and try not to let the bumps in the road send you flying. I wish I had taken some pictures but we were zipping along and there were no pauses for pictures, so instead you all will get the Smellera's recording of the morning's scenic bike ride: five hot cross buns rolling down a sand dune. We ate sandwiches afterward at a cafe and I felt so proud to have accomplished so much before noon, but since then my coconut has been too cooked to do anything besides stand under the garden hose (set on "mister"), lay in bed moaning, and eat bowl after bowl of cereal to cool my innards with soy milk.

When New Power Lioness and I picked up her baby sister from Oakland Airport yesterday, I said hello and then immediately criticized her for her poor judgment (she was wearing black tights, it was 95 degrees). But apparently it is fifty times hotter in the valley whenceforth she came, and I was just being rude. We cooled off by sitting in NPL's sweltering kitchen and eating rubberized pork loins and then driving around Lake Merritt to Wilbur's birthday party and dancing quietly to quiet music with our drinks balanced on top of our heads, which is what NPL's sister said the rich kids of Chandigarh do to show their appreciation for the liquor. NPL speculated that the balancing act permitted one to dance without spilling one's beverage, but I'm not sure about that, because half my beer ended on my shirt last night even though I diligently danced with it over my head. I explained the quiet, unenthusiastic, but happy dance party to the 22 year-old by saying we were this way because we were "aged," but NPL heard what she wanted to hear, that we were sedate because we were "Asian." Untrue. Alternative explanations were that we were all too mesmerized by the repetitive but effective flirting technique of a whispered-about Lothario, or heat-addled, or occupied by ice cream, to put any energy into our barefoot two-steps. NPL was sweet enough (thank you!!) to leave the party early and drop me off at the BART station before it turned into a pumpkin, so that I could begin the long, hot haul home. In an effort to experiment with driving/public transportation combinations, I drove to the Union City BART station and then took the train up to Oakland. It was a mistake. I spent four hours and fifteen minutes in transport, and approximately $18, to travel 69 miles.

Funny, I just saw that the O.Z. has texted me: "I got your package. You are the breast! <3">