I was in London when I first realized I was solar-powered. It was a curious sensation. Daylight was as rare as a tasteful meal there (except for Indian food). The gray skies drained my batteries, leaving me sluggish and unenthusiastic. It probably dried my humor too.
Whenever people read about the science of love, it usually leads to one of two conclusions:
Love is difficult to describe. Poets and lyricists have tried doing so for eons. And they're still at it.
But how would a scientist describe love? It probably wouldn't be as romantic as a poet's or lyricist's description. I fancy it would be something like this:
Dear Adults,
Hi. I am a little boy living in a small town in America. One day, I will grow up and be an adult just like you.
I am writing to ask you something very important to me. Please don't kill our planet.
I'm not sure what possessed me to light that bush on fire.
Maybe it was because I knew where my Mom kept the matches. That's just about all the reason an adolescent male needs to light anything on fire.
This is what happens when the lights go out. The rats mobilize and the cockroaches arm themselves. It's an all-out war unseen by human eyes. We wouldn't want to see it either; it would be too horrible to comprehend.
We deserve our fate. It's our collective fault that we've created so much pollution.
Call me a pessimist, but I don't see much hope in our world's corporations and governments. I don't believe they'll take enough significant action in time to make a difference. It would take a complete societal overhaul to save us now.
Tap tap tap. That's the sound of a keyboard, an instrument of the Office Music Orchestra. Phone rings, elevator dings, and cube conversations also make up this jolly arrangement.
The 101 North twisted and turned like a dizzy whirlpool. Had we driven any faster, we certainly would have added our lunch to the interior.
There's a black squirrel outside on my balcony fence and he looks like he's making love to the fence.
I kid you not. His groin is pressed into the edge of the wood. Good gravy, that little fellah is humping my fence! It's squirrel wood on fence wood. The horror. The humanity.
"I was on a dirt trail like this once when I was younger," I said as we bounced along the moderately bump trail with our mountain bikes.
"And I accidentally slammed on my front brakes first, hard. And over I flew, over my handlebars, and into the ground."
Weekly random rambles, musings & writings of Mike Lee in San Francisco, CA