There’s a reason I don’t live in the Southwest, or the South for that matter. It’s their summers. One’s a dry heat and therefore less oppressive, though I’m not a fan of either of them. One kind of sweltering heat makes you fuck a cactus, the other your cousin. Both could be fun to watch, but I wouldn’t want to live that way.

I live in San Francisco where summer days usually aren’t bad. There are exceptions though. This past Saturday was one of them. It was not as hot as either the South or Southwest and did not drive me to sexually assault a cousin-cactus hybrid, which I figure is at highest risk for rape in extreme heat and moderate humidity.

Instead, I lay on the couch and wheezed F bombs at no one in particular as the afternoon wore on. Rebecca eventually got motivated and dragged her ass to the gym, but I did not budge. When she came back after an hour or two, I was feeling the effects of caffeine withdrawal. It was then I  decided to finally get out of the house.

“Going to Trash Muddy’s!” I said to her as I headed out the door. I was referring to Muddy Waters, a cafe owned by the same people as Muddy’s and located eight blocks away on 16th Street. It’s a little crustier down that way, hence the nickname I gave it.

I stuck to the west side of Valencia Street, shaded from the late afternoon sun, as I walked toward the cafe. I was unfortunately not shielded from the late afternoon crowd. The douchebags in v-neck t-shirts and Shia LaBeouf hair were the most aesthetically offensive, but to be honest I wasn’t thrilled about any of them. They walked slower than I did and impeded my progress. Never mind that I was in no hurry to get where I was going. If I was going to dawdle, I wanted it to be on my terms.

I got to Trash Muddy’s, ordered a large coffee, and sat in the back room. I was at the same table as last week, the one with “DIE TECHIE SCUM” etched into the wood. Did the person who wrote that mean me? Maybe a little. I do write code for a living, but I’m not some 24 year old who’s lived a life of privilege. I’m a 54 year old who’s lived a life of privilege. There’s a world of difference.

It was hot in there and the air was heavy and still. Ordinarily, I would hate that. I kind of liked it though, either despite or because of my drinking hot coffee.  I was able to relax enough to enjoy being the only back there. I also liked that other than my phone, I couldn’t see any technology more recent than 1990. It almost made me put my phone away and enjoy the old-timey goodness.

Almost.