"Oh, my sweet summer child," Old Nan said.

It was one of those early nuggets of summer that San Franciscans know to tuck away before June actually rolls around and starts off the chilly times. Winter is coming to eat small minority children in August, and we're going to rub our hands together in a fog bank just thinking back to when it was just a little too warm for comfort and the air is still. We were awash in beercraft, and I can recall a BeerAdvocate explosion: Bear Republic stout, Back in Black, Brew Free, Dogfish Head's 90 minute.

When Erik produced a string of dragonfly kites, it was just the cherry atop, and we began our Instagram festival. Backlighting and shirtlessness being the markers of epic Like gathering, I am looking forward to reaping the Klout harvest.

I don't know why I'm bothering to bump up my tanning since Burning Man will just mean I emerge from the desert looking ethnic FOR REAL.

Why is it that we're never on the Western edge of Dolores, just down from the Gay Beach? It's curvaceous, has excellent views, though I guess the manflesh is somewhat lacking. I have yet to come up with a satisfactory alliteration for the hill corner that seems to have hula hoopers and families.

I remember buying a big pink frosted heart cookie and then we all threw ourselves upon it. For all that we pretend to be Big Kids, I'm okay with how happy we all look running down the side of a grassy hill with a kite, trying so hard just to keep the whole contraption off the ground.

 I remain amused when a six-foot drag queen struts across the middle of the Gayborhood.

With saffron and mango ice creams in hand, we took it upon ourselves to assess exactly how many of the Dolores Park commandments are never violated. Every Sunday, nobody smokes, dogs are kept on leashes, the park remains drug-free and clean, and certainly nary a drop of alcohol.

Goat curry and bhaigan bharta with Talia made for an excellent Tuesday, especially after the house I went to interview at set my spidey senses tinglin'. I just want a quiet space of my own, and having good people to keep the bustle n' beer level up would be a glossy plus. Is it too late in life to cobble together three or four friends and move into a giant house where we cook and brew and grow silly herbs?

Erik with some pizza flotsam.

Much like the chocolate toffee samples  that I always act surprised to receive in the Heart of the City market, I picked up a free massage at Dogpatch today. Are you supposed to make eye contact with a stranger who has his bare feet jammed under your arm while popping your shoulder? He talked to me about my bum shoulder vibrating on a tense frequency, and yet there were no chakras mentioned. I miss the fantastical yoga teachers I had at Berkeley, being asked to roll my hips into the rivers of eternity, or to hang my head like ripe succulent fruit. After being told over and over to relax and to let this man swing my arm through its degrees, I ran into some bros that I'd climbed with at Great Western Power Company, which made for some sweet clambering.

Can gay climber boys start high fiving after sends as well? Thanks.

And wrapped it all up at sunset with some Goat Hill, free tiramisu (thanks Yelp!), and epic tea time. I'll count it as celebration for bumbling through Hump Day of a strangely stressy week.