Waiting for the fireworks at Fisherman’s Warf, I was watching the kids around me. The little boy next to me (not yet three years old) had a few of those white tissue-paper bits that explode when you throw them against the ground. He would get up on his tippy toes, reach one arm up as far as it would go, then slam the tissue paper against the pavement. As his total height�including the reach of his arm–was no more than about three feet, he wasn’t always successful. But when he was rewarded with a small pop, he’d scream:

FIE-YYAAAAH! FIE-YAHHH!

Then he’d tug on his parent’s pants, mimic the great force with which he’d heaved the tiny explosive and say, “Fieyah go BOOM!”

10:59 a.m.

Only in San Francisco does someone compliment a particularly spectacular fireworks show by saying, “Man, we should’ve taken ecstasy.”

11:50 p.m.

I thought he was only interested in friendship. Then he said, “I like your shoes. Are those new?”

A few days later he said, “Those pants look good on you. Those are my second favorite , after the black ones.”

My theory is that, unless I’m wearing red leather trousers with flames up the legs and/or buttless chaps, a straight man who has favorite pants is up to something fishy. A man who has a runner-up favorite pair of pants and comments on my shoes…maybe I’m wrong about the straight thing.

2:06 p.m.