185 running in high heels

Above, a picture on Uranus. This house is one of my favorite in the neighborhood, just because of that garden. (Well, I'm sure the views are pretty great, and it's a cute little bungalow.)

Here it is through one of the better cameras on my phone. 

Let's start by looking at the statistics for Coronavirus in the city. It's been six months now, where are we at?

At this point, it's pretty clear what makes an effective Cov2 response. Wear masks around other people. If there's a flare up, do a lockdown.

That's not what happened in the US, anywhere. Here in SF, we also missed the ball on masks. And because we are part of a country where the virus is basically being allowed to spread unchecked, our initial big reaction has turned into a long, slow reaction.

That's a full month before we figured out the mask thing. Meanwhile, lots of us knew to wear one from day one. (Is it really that hard to imitate China? No, it's not.)

Yet, we're sticking with our cautious approach, and so far our crowded scary city is twice as safe as, say, rural, ain't nobody there South Dakota.

Meanwhile, we're still fucked.

Birds are basically flying lungs and hearts.

Ever heard the phrase "canary in a coal mine?" 

It's because miners used to bring birds into their diggings to test the air.

They say we tend to come up with conspiracies when the truth is just too much to handle.

So, if instead of this economic shift being orchestrated by machine intelligence, aka #SingularityNow, to move us into a more sustainable behavior, what if instead, we had a bad virus and responded in a semi-effective way, and many businesses died as result?

And if instead of pizza-munching satan-worshipping pedophiles ruling over us, we had cheeseburger-chomping self-worshipping pussy grabbers?

Or maybe it's our phones telling us what to do.

We missed bike to work day back in May. Deb and I have been planning a bike ride for months, I even went so far as to power wash our bikes a while ago. I haven't been on my bike in over a year, because I had a bout of prostatitis last year, and a bike seat is just about the last place I wanted to be. But maybe September 24 is the day.

And since we're on the subject of bad-ass women posing with bikes, here's the cover illustration of  Self-Driving Mystery. I wrote that book primarily to talk about the machine she's standing next to, my vision for a solar-boosted, self-balancing ebike with a fully-enclosed cabin. 

Personally, I think that could be a game changer. Think about how many more commuters could jam onto a freeway in those versus, say, an F-250. Or Tacoma.

Speaking of bad-ass women posing, I told my mom three years ago that Kamala Harris would be our next president, and guess what? She's still in the running. Literally. 

You can't do that in high heels. (Dear Leader has learned that the hard way.)

And finally, Deb and I are slowly but surely making progress on a new yard.