Yesterday I went to a delightful late breakfast, as long as you consider the company I had, which overshadowed the food a hundredfold. I had a Belgian style waffle, which was similar to every other waffle I've eaten and differed only in being served with clarified butter.

I'm not sure what that's about, but my hunch is either they're not certain their waffles will be warm enough to melt butter or clarified is, somehow, cheaper. Maybe it's supposed to be fancier, I just don't know.

In addition to the above-mentioned company, this late breakfast was noteworthy because of the location, a genuine 1950s coffee shop, as well as our decision to eat on the "patio." I use the term loosely, the same way Pann's must. What passes for a patio for many of the LA eating establishments is no more than a section of sidewalk, hermetically sealed in plastic and overheated by those huge propane devices.

It would be funny if it weren't such a sad commentary on 21st century humanity.

Los Angeles may be many things, but clementis one of the more used words to describe our temperature. This year we had a brief battle with sub-fifty degree nights, only to emerge safely. It may not yet be summertime temperatures, but no one would complain about being outside, not unless you asked those eating on patios or driving.

The cars on the road were all sealed up, all the residents isolated with the temperature safely under their car's control, and the other patrons at Panns were all protected from even the slightest breeze by thick plastic curtains, which served to intensify the sounds of our fellow diners.

My parents, at one time, poured the thinnest possible covering of concrete on the ground just outside the back door, This we called the patio, and it was open to the elements and supported a barbecue and not much else. I'm not sure what the dictionary definition of a patio is, but I think it carries with it some notion of being outside, not merely extending the indoor experience to an adjoining paved area.

This brunch didn't feature any music, only the welcome sound of conversation.

The other day when shopping I picked up some organic bananas, something I'd never had before. From my science classes I knew that "organic" meant there was carbon in them, and I wondered if I could taste it. I don't taste as well as I used to, but even if I couldn't taste the carbon I figured it would do me some good. Maybe help my kidneys with the filtering or, if I were lucky, it might make me lightweight and stealthy.

I didn't have any choice, really. The market didn't have any "regular" bananas, not that I could see, but everyone shopping there just looked so much healthier than those I normally see that I knew I was onto a good thing. And, not only healthier, but I had a hunch they were all wittier and also better in bed. These were the people I could see at one glance that were the ones reaping fully of the benefits of living in 21st Century America. Gods and Goddesses, every one.

I wasn't too fooled about the banana, though. In spite of the carbon I knew it was the same banana I'd been eating all my life. Since the early 1920s there's only been one banana sold in the US, and by "one banana" I mean exactly that.

Bananas are one of my favorite fruits, but I realize they're a marvel of cultivation and genetic modification. They're sterile, we've bred the seeds right out of them, and each and every banana is genetically identical. They're clones, if you will, and if you thought there was really only one banana plant and all they were doing was hacking of bits of it and replanting it to make two plants, you'd be right.

You can make some good money in bars with this information. Pick anyone under eighty and bet them they've never had more than one banana. Everyone we know, most likely, and us have all been eating the same banana all our lives.

That's going to change, however, once the banana blight kills off this plant. I understand banana scientists are hard at work right now trying to find a successor to our current banana, which I think is called the "cavendish." It replaced some "gold" or "golden" something or other, the banana that I'm told was tastier but was wiped out and generated the song "Yes, We Have No Bananas."

I doubt a similar song will be spawned, but one can hope.

Anyway, this organic banana, not surprisingly, tasted good, and I could hardly discern the carbon.

Okay, I admit it, yesterday I had moment's smugness and, for once, it wasn't directed at those who get their news and opinions from Fox news or Drudge. I didn't know it at the time, but it was on Palm Sunday, too, a day when I should know better than to be sinning.

Still, I don't think pride, or prideful gloating, is against any of the Commandments, just one of the sins talked about by the one, true Church. Even so, it can't be a good thing to be so smug, but I can't say I feel very bad about it.

And, I'm nowhere near the first to notice this. I think mention of it pre-dates jokes about airline food.

I took a little walk from the home I'm watching to visit a store and buy some bread and other food. On the way, after leaving the street with practical stores withSpanish names and turning onto the one whose stores had names like "sensual" (lower case) or "Infinitude" and who sold goods that can only be described as "luxury," I ran across yet another place advertising itself as "LA's finest gym." It took me a moment to register that I was walking in front of three or four guys carefully dressed in co-ordinating outfits who were lazing along on treadmills.

It took me but a moment more to realize they were doing the same thing I was (walking), but I was doing it for free, as a consequence of going to the market, and they were doing it as a goal, after having driven to the gym.

There was a big sign out front of the gym ($119 for three months), which isn't a bad price, I guess, but for their money these guys get personal trainers who produce specialized regiments, and the use of a wide variety of state of the art equipment. I'd like to try some of those things out, but as far as walking goes, well, I think I got a better view than they did.

It was on the way home that it dawned on me that it was Palm Sunday. I passed a church, and that was written on the placard out front. There was a steady stream of women with children walking toward the church, but I didn't say any men with them. This struck me as odd, but maybe there was a big game on the TV, or (more likely) the men were all home nursing hangovers.

The only other thing I considered noteworth was the name of the church: St Francis of Assisi Catholic Church. I don't know as too many non-Catholic religions would name a church after a Catholic saint, so I consider their specifying that it's a Catholic church is unnecessary. Maybe there's been some pushing and shoving with the Anglicans or Greek Orthodox, though, so it may be a necessary distinction. I have to say that when I see a church named after a Catholic saint, my first guess is it's a Catholic church.

When I see a church named "Christ's Salvation," I have no idea what to make of it, but I think if I were to found one, I'd call it "Sweet Mother of Christ." That sounds religious enough.

Years ago I read a review in Consumer Reports about shampoos. I don't remember who won, but I do remember them saying the two following things:

1) Shampoos, they said, are chemically identical to dishwashing soap, but with the addition of fragrances. This is no longer true, I don't think, since my dishwashing soap smells like apples.

2) No matter which shampoo you use, you should use another one every so often. Evidentally, each shampoo leaves part of itself as a residue, and that can only be removed by using a competing product.

I was thinking about those things when I recently used, for the first time ever!, some deep pore cleanser product. As soon as I spread it on my skin, I wondered how the less deep pores would feel about being neglected, and felt bad for them. The stuff is gritty, and it felt identical to Lava, a soap I used quite a bit earlier in life, and which I now see is owned by the WD-40 people.

I don't know how much this deep cleaning potion costs, but I have a hunch it's more than either Lava or the more masterly Boraxo. I once had a job, one in an office, where the men's room had Boraxo, and I always considered that to be a nod toward our gonads. No women's room, ever, has Boraxo!

I have another hunch. Marketeers may have learned that people will pay more for any product that's described as a "body wash" or cleanser, much more than they would for a soap. This is the kind of thinking that not only keeps our country great, but profitable as well.

Spring's set to arrive in less than half an hour (10:26 PST), and it can't get here fast enough.

Although it's now over a dozen degrees (with a waning gibbous moon), it feels less than that because of the wind. Much less. I'm wearing a charcoal gray hooded sweatshirt with the hood up over a T-shirt, a pair of jeans, socks, boxers, and fuzzy suede slippers, and I can't wait to change into something colorful. Maybe something with orange, something to not only welcome the new season but that will identify me as a Californian.

The trouble is, I'm not convinced it's shorts weather yet.

I'm looking forward to warmer days as well as hoping that "young man's fancy" stuff may roll up its sleeves and get to work. I'm primed, but I'm not sure if the upcoming season has the same effect on women. They can be a fickle lot, demanding and whatnot, but I guess from their POV men can be the same.

But we aren't, not really.

What I'm hoping for this spring is gainful employment. Yeah, that's more up to me than it is the sun and stars, but I think it's a worthy goal. Being a full time writer hasn't gotten me anywhere, nowhere at all lately, and I miss being surrounded by people who consider me wonderful.

Or, I could buy a winning lottery ticket or stumble across a big bag of fifties.

Yesterday I rode to the nearby little market to pick up some much needed supplies (root beer and my favorite hot sauce) and received a free flat tire.

This happens much more frequently on bicycles than it does on cars, and I'm not sure if that's because we're forced to ride in crappy, litter-filled parts of the street or if it's because the components of a bicycle tire are cheap. I've had my share of auto flats, too, and they're no fun, but bicycle flats are easier to fix.

So, this morning I fixed my flat and here it is, two hours later, and the tire's still holding air, the way it's supposed to. I have to admit I'm still unexpectedly thrilled when the results of my labors work out as intended, though I shouldn't be. I've probably repaired twenty or thirty bike flats in my life.

Car flats? Only one. What I most often do is pull off the flat (loosening the lug nuts *before* jacking the car up) and replace it with the spare, then buy a new tire. One way to make sure I can do that is to rotate the tires myself. Those car places seem to take some perverse joy in over-tightening the wheels, far beyond the specifications, with the result that the wrench you find in your trunk is useless.

(By the way, when I had my accident a few years ago, the wheel stayed attached. Everything up to the axle came off.)

Bikes, however, are easier to work on, and not just because you can do it indoors. This latest flat was the first for the rear tire, which is trickier because of the chain, but I was able to patch it. This means my spare inner tube is still in its original box, factory fresh, and waiting for a more serious puncture.

It looks as though I'll survive yet another day of infamy. I wasn't warned about any attacks on my life, which may explain my lack of concern, but once again I sailed through the Ides of March without so much as a bruising fistfight.

In fact, the only attempt on my life was self-inflicted. Throwing caution to the winds, I drank some milk with an expiration date of the fourteenth. Only time will tell if I'll survive. I should remember to check my site statistics to see if there's a dropoff in readers and bots, any one of whom may have been the subject of a more successful attack.

I haven't checked my numbers lately, and for good cause. I haven't been saying much of interest, so I'm writing now, mostly, out of habit. My opinions are common ones, and I'm not an expert on anything I write about. I thought, for a time, that the world should reward me, but I'm not convinced of that any more.

Still, it's been a good day.