If I read the date correctly, this is the middle of the summer. A Midsummers Night’s Dream if there ever was one. And if I feel a paradoxical bit of gloom, there is every reason to ask some serious questions. Like what is wrong? If one can’t sing in the sunshine now, one can later, right? And yes, it is sad that Northern California has been under a cloud at a time when the rest of the world is frying. Or is it? Consider the alternative. Or don’t even consider. Just wait. There are all sorts of terminal heat warnings out for the weekend, next week, and tomorrow and tomorrow. Don’t blame it on the weather.

Age? Mortality? Yes, that is probably closer to the mark. I do feel time’s winged chariot gaining on me. And even there…what is to complain about? Ashes to ashes. Or body to compost. This is my latest wish vis-à-vis the grim reaper. I like my garden. Might as well pitch in when nothing else is to be done. And believe it or not, Gentle Reader, this monologue has been helpful. Thanks for bearing with me.

Where was I? Oh, yes. In the garden. Of earthly delights, there are plenty. It is no accident that, given have a chance, I always repair to the greenhouse. The greenhouse effect in this case is quite salubrious. Heat gathers at a time when heat is in short supply. Honestly, it is ridiculous, this summer in San Francisco. Yes, I know all the jokes. But even my extremely positive wife acknowledges that this year has been worse than ever. 

But not in the greenhouse. There tomatoes are falling off the vine. We have basil. We have lift off. Everything is growing, including the lettuce. Despite the fact that the latter is being harvested at a very fast clip. This is a wonderful time.

And there are more wonderful times ahead. And if they’re not wonderful, at least they’re going to be rich. A very ambiguous statement, I just made. Rich. That can be said of Buchenwald. But I don’t know how else to put it. Maybe this has to do with facing my annual physical. Maybe it has to do with…. I don’t know. It is true. Aging is not for the faint of heart.

And in the midst of this, I do persist in going in and out of the center of town for…reasons that have to do with what might be called the “citizenship project.” Late in life, I am determined to feel like a player. Hell, I am a player.

What? You didn’t read today’s Jewish News of Northern California? There I am paying homage to Judy Heumann. And genuinely invoking her spirit. I keep trying to get involved. In anything having to do with life and times. Particularly for bedraggled San Francisco. I am convinced that the boom-bust city will get back on its feet soon enough. And I would like to see this occur on a different footing. There is much more going on here than high tech.

Including movies. Such as the latest Indiana Jones. It is splendid, Gentle Reader. Utterly silly, of course, and just a thing for a cold foggy July day in San Francisco. Particularly in the Alamo Drafthouse Cinema. The latter occupies, very confusingly, a large art deco cinema called the New Mission. Wander along Mission Street, trying not to make unpleasant comparisons with Dresden after the bombings, and there it shines. New Mission, in all its sculpted concrete glory. 

The only problem being that Alamo Drafthouse owns and operates the place, and its name is nowhere to be seen…. But never mind. This seems to be one of those San Francisco inside things. Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that they serve food inside. And relatively good food, I must add. Well, for sure, what they have is excellent popcorn. 10 bucks for a “bottomless” bowl. And the whole experience can make you regress quite pleasantly and very quickly.

As does the movie. Harrison Ford appears in a brief flashback looking in his late 30s. But for most of the film he seems to be what he is, late 70s. Very late. And, of course, we have a wonderful tour of the world, each scene more scenic than its predecessor. There are fights. There are wonderful scenes with Fleabag star Phoebe Mary Waller-Bridge, whose name is almost as long as the movie.

Indiana Jones also has a kid sidekick. This is essential to pull in millions, if not billions, of kids around the world. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be 10 years old and able to fly an airplane without any training? Above all, there are Nazis. Ever-welcome villains, as long as they are German and goose-stepping, not American and taking over the Republican party. I digress. And that is one of the wonderful things about 2 ½ popcorn hours watching utter illusion. We need all we can get.