The sushi party was composed of the Friday Night Irregulars: Spike Parsons, Bill and Julie Humphries, John, and myself. We expected Tom Becker, Spike's partner, but as usual he was working late. He always works late, even when he doesn't have any real deadlines. He lives to work. I find this a wholly alien concept. However, this is the way of software programmers, so lord knows I'm surrounded by more people with Tom's work ethic than mine. Mine is, of course, "Work hard and well for as many hours as they pay you and not a minute more."

So Tom was on Planet Tom, working for free, and the rest of us enjoyed an excellent repast of sushi and Asahi beer at Yakko in Mountain View. I had two beers, in fact (une party animal, moi), and I not only felt tipsy from it, I got a hangover headache before I even got home that night. I am so bogus. I don't process alcohol correctly. I don't know why I even bother ordering the stuff.

Afterwards, we walked over to Castro Street and meandered around the Printer's Ink bookstore. I made a beeline for the science fiction section where I snapped up the latest James White, a new Sector General novel. Score! I didn't even know he was working on one. I really liked the last one about the alien chef. Spike and I talked a little about the latest Elizabeth Lynn novel, Dragon's Winter. Lizzie's a great writer, but I was disappointed by one aspect of the book: she didn't so much foreshadow events as bluntly reveal them under the guise of prophecy. I was not happy about having the plot spoiled by the author. I thought it ruined two of the important scenes. It can't have been carelessness as she is not that sort of writer. I can only suppose she had something in mind, but I sure don't know what she gained by it. The rest of the book was deft and inventive. I'll read the sequel.

Saturday we had a freak storm blast through the Bay Area. Tree limbs came down, power went out, and a tornado was spotted up in Napa. Spike, John, and I were having lunch with Bruce Townley who came down to visit for the day from far-off, fabled San Francisco when someone pointed out the threatening clouds. "How clever of us to get caught in a restaurant," I said comfortably, and ordered a dessert bigger than my head. Later, we drove around the better parts of San Jose in search of the famous Rosicrucian Egyptian Museum. "Are you sure we'll be able to find it?" I asked anxiously. We kept seeing little, itty bitty signs for it, but I couldn't see anything but Victorian houses and a fairly large chunk of Santa Clara University. In the end, it was impossible to miss. The museum consisted of enormous temple-like structures, giant statues of owls and hippos, columns painted like lotus fronds, and walls covered in hieroglyphs. Also, there was an obelisk. We did not observe any actual Rosicrucians, though. On the other hand, we didn't go in because that would have cost money. It was well worth the drive just to view it from outside, though. The lawn was strewn with palm fronds from the storm.

Today I slept in until the, er, time I usually get up. But it seemed later because of the clock changes! I bounced out of bed, mainly because Natasha was yowling for food, thus banishing any possibility of further sleep, and flung open the curtains to reveal another beautiful, blustery spring day. "Aaaah," I intoned, "time to wash the cat." It's one of those mysteries of nature: blossoms know when to bloom, leaves know when to fall, and I know when my cat needs a bath. I clasped Keiko to my bosom and got in the tub.

Thirty minutes later I had a clean and furious cat. She ran away before I could properly dry her off, shaking her hind legs as she went in a kind of kung fu fandango. No grudges were held, however, and eventually she found a nice sunny spot in which to fluff out properly. My thighs and behind were aching from squatting alternating with kneeling during the feline cleaning process. Cat Squats! They're the next Tae Bo. It's a hell of a workout, let me tell you. Heft one ten pound cat in the air, squirt with water, work in shampoo, lather, rinse, up, down, catch cat, rinse some more, work in conditioner, pull cat off shower curtain, soak head with wildly spraying hose, heft cat in air again to get all conditioner off legs and tummy, change position several times in small porcelain tub in order to restrain cat, sluice off remaining conditioner from cat and self, release cat, stand up, relax.

No, she didn't scratch me. But I'm not tackling Natasha until my muscles stop hurting every time I breathe.

I spent my afternoon with Denise mooching around garden centers up in South San Francisco and planning my miniscule garden. She snagged the prettiest pot of iris in the place, darn her, and I found some healthy looking snapdragons which I promptly went home and planted right where I can see them from my computer. If the snails don't get them they will be a lovely blaze of dark red (excuse me, "carmine") all summer. My euphorbia has put forth some amazing lime green flowers, so I really ought to choose a permanent place for it since it clearly is hardy enough to survive frost. I'm going to plant freesias over where the begonias used to be. I have very little to work with, but all of a sudden I'm jazzed about planting it up. The weather is just gorgeous now.

I'm very excited about tomorrow night because I'm going to the Oakland A's Opening Day game. Yay! Baseball season is here again. I love baseball even though I don't do statistics and I basically don't know the finer points of the game. I just love watching it being played. I even watch baseball on tv sometimes, though I'd far rather be in a stadium. There is no good explanation for this, since otherwise I am completely indifferent to or even contemptuous of sports. But there's something good, and wholesome, and enjoyable about baseball. I'm psyched.

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