Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air


Savoring my first evening at home in a week, and it's all blues-tinted.

The heat broke yesterday. I sat on the water at Aquatic Park late-afternoon and watched an imposing fog bank obscure the Golden Gate and knew it'd be just a matter of time until Nob Hill was once again shrouded in grey. Coming home in the wee hours, happily beer-scented, it was cold and windy and blustery, and it felt like August again after the weekend's strange sun and warmth.

So tonight I'm zipped up in my charcoal hoodie and sprawled, quite literally, in a TOP SECRET! art project, and it's pretty much the bee's knees: glue sticks and expensive stationery and muted colors and oh-I-wanna-be-an-artist. The glue sticking action's been drowned in a soundtrack of primarily jazz thus far, a lot of Diana Krall and John Coltrane and Billy Strayhorn, but there's been some Joni and James and some renegade Kings of Leon sneaking in, too.

But I lit upon the goldmine a few minutes ago; this killer rendition of Chet Baker (oh, my man Chet) crooning "Almost Blue," my favorite, my default, my first and last. He doesn't even open his mouth until five minutes in; after that, it's an easy downhill slide to the end of the chart. I caught The Talented Mr. Ripley last week; the film's deliciously dark, if you haven't seen it in awhile, but more importantly, it's ripe with Jude Law and Matt Damon rocking the Chet Baker action; Damon sounds remarkably like Chet singing "My Funny Valentine," and I've had him on the brain since.

So settle in amongst the paper scraps and the wrapping tape, open your windows and let the fog fingers wisp in. It's a good night to be home, and listening, in the City.

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