And the strange dust lands on your hands, and on your face

After what we pansy-assed Californians consider a frigid couple-three weeks, it's 70 degrees right now in downtown San Francheesy. And it's the day before a holiday weekend (though not for us, because my company, while otherwise great, is stingy bitches with the paid official holidays).

People are bagging off work right and left -- there are tumbleweeds in my acre of the cube farm; people are taking 45 minute "coffee breaks" to the Starbucks that's 40 feet away as the pigeon flies; people are playing with MS Paint and sending inept bitmap artwork (featuring tumbleweeds) to each other all over the place. Friends who work elsewhere have already bagged off work, and are calling us poor cubies and urging us to bag off too.

My friend the drummer/Living Lebowski sent me a mini-movie on my cell phone at 2:37 p.m. showing the bartender at our favorite cantina putting a fresh margarita on the bar in front of him. I texted him back: "You bastard."