Ignore everything my fingers say.

The only problem was that our POTS (Plain Old Telephone System), which doesn’t require external power, was working. Ordinarily that would have been a welcome feature, but tonight people kept calling with some variation of the question, “Is the power off at your place too?”

Although I enjoyed the candlelight, I was glad when the main lighting system powered on and the phone stopped ringing.

The trip back down proved more interesting in that none of us remembered how to get back to the car. Each of the hikers we asked provided helpful but contradictory directions, and we ended up at the wrong trailhead. And after a few kilometers walking along narrow Mill Valley roads, we finally concluded our little adventure as the sun was setting.

Although I was a bit annoyed at the detour, I nevertheless found the farce amusing. I’ve been hiking in real mountains for decades, but never got lost until hiking on a suburban hill. Who doesn’t like cheap irony?

And so, for reasons that make no sense at all, I’ve taken to repeating the same observation at that same interval. I don’t really see the point; I suppose it really is just as Martin Mull said, “None is so blind as he who cannot see.”

“What’s the matter,” I asked?

“Music,” Reina replied between sobs, “it’s hopeless.”

“All art is just pointless,” I assured her, “so don’t worry if it’s hopeless.”

Even if she heard me, I doubt she believed me.

I was particularly impressed with an older, balding businessman in an expensive suit with a pink tie. He was mimicking a telephone by sticking his thumb in his ear and his little finger in front of his mouth; he was screaming like a lunatic.

“Listen!” he shrieked, “When I talk I want answers and I want ‘em now. Don’t pretend you can’t hear me; I know you’re listening. Tell me what it’s going to be this very moment! You can’t fake that you’re not there; I can hear you breathing!”

The crazy man in the suit was sweating as his face turned red; he was clearly enjoying being in the Saint Stupid’s Day parade.

Or maybe not.

When all the marchers turned off Market Street, the man continued walking in a straight line, ignoring the rest of the stupid people on parade.

That’s the thing about stupidity, I suppose: some people who are apparently stupid aren’t, and some people who seem not to be stupid truly are.

“It’s an Italian custom,” the announcer quickly explained.

The passing of an old man who did all he could to discourage people from using condoms wasn’t of much interest to me. On the other hand, the knowledge about the Italian practice of clapping when someone dies will certainly come in handy. The next time someone gets offended when I clap at the death of a loathsome person, I’ll just explain that it’s the Italian in me!