Back in the eighties we used to go to a lot of Giants games at windy Candlestick Park. One season our seats were in a section in the right field corner, just above the home bullpen. There was always something in the air at the 'Stick, and it wasn't always baseballs. It was more likely to be hot dog wrappers and plastic grocery bags swirling above your head.

This section where we sat that year was like the clogged entry to a drain. It was where all this swirling garbage ended up. Those would have been great seats if all the garbage in San Francisco hadn't ended up there.

That's what today felt like. Here I am two days away from vacation and all the crap that's been swirling over my head was caught in a downdraft and dumped on me. Emergency, crisis, crisis, near-miss, crisis, emergency. In more or less that order. It's not over yet, of course, because there's one more day. I just can't wait to see what tomorrow is full of.

After that season we moved back to the upper deck. When you sit that high at the 'Stick, the garbage swirls below you. You have to look around and through it to see the field sometimes, but at least it rarely lands on you. Now that the Giants have moved to Pacific Bell Park, we take whatever seats we can get, but the wind is less brutal there anyway.

I want to say something about An Ideal Husband which thanks to Netflix and a recommendation from Rachel, I've watched a couple of times in the last few days. I can't say too much without telling the whole story, though, because it's an English drawing room comedy based on a play by Oscar Wilde, with lots of interesting characters and a neat little twisty plot.

Briefly, it's about what love can and cannot conquer. It's about honor and pride. And it's about how women are the driving force in society. The story moves forward based on what men do to or for or because of or in spite of women. It's positively Darwinian in its implications. Or not. Either way, it's a lot of fun with some sparkling performances.

If I thought I'd get the refrigerator put back together today, I was wrong. There was just too much going on, and my fingers are still shredded from all the pointy things. There was no way I'd have been able to work those tiny wrenches and get all those tiny screws in place, since I could barely even type. You should see what a mess my fingers are, except you probably shouldn't. I don't expect anyone to feel sorry for me, because it was really my fault for sticking my hand where I couldn't see what I was doing, but it does hurt and I can't hide it.