I was having a conversation with some conservative friends the other night about the homeless problem in San Francisco. Not surprisingly, they had the solution. “Round them up and take them to a shelter, and don’t let them out until they’re clean, sober and ready to contribute to society,” one of them said as the other nodded in agreement. They had arguments as to why this wouldn’t infringe on civil liberties.

Breakfast — the thing that happens between the shower and the bus — used to be pretty exciting. If the sky was overcast and the newspaper soggy, you could at least look forward to finding something swell inside the cereal box. Not anymore, though. Opening a box of cereal these days is a dull affair. No more decoder rings, whistles, rubber stamps, model aircraft carriers or license plates you can stick on your bike.

Shortly after the release of Melissa Stein’s debut book of poetry, “Rough Honey,” her mother called. Stein’s mother, who hadn’t read much of the San Francisco poet’s writing, had just finished the book. “She had this terribly tentative, quiet voice,” Stein recalls. “And she says, ‘I just have one question for you.

HONOLULU — The rum-and-sunshine maitai goes for $3 a pop at Waikiki. But brudda, I didn’t come to Hawaii to drink cooking sherry. It’s a fruity drink. A lot of lemon juice in a BIG old-fashioned glass. The glass is packed solid with crushed ice, and this makes the mighty maitai profitable. Two jiggers of rum go in the glass. And a dark Jamaica rum is floated on top. It is decorated with a wedge of pineapple, a cherry.

We don’t change the world. We only change the corner that we live in. We do that by being kind. In our case, that means making the bedlam bungalow in the outer, outer, outer Excelsior a better home for the family we chose. This column is about the sons who chose us: Zane and Aidan. And the dogs who chose us: Buddyboy and Bandit. Brian still says that he didn’t have much choice with me in that I was a rescue husband, but it’s not true that he found me in a pound.

I hate wine tasting. I don’t like drinking alcohol during the day, mainly because it doesn’t give me anything to look forward to at night. And while I enjoy wine as much as anyone, I have no clue as to the reason why, and I really don’t care. So when some friends invited us to a two-day wine tasting extravaganza in Paso Robles, which is about a 3½-hour drive down Highway 101 from San Francisco, in the heart of the Central Valley, I was a little hesitant.

Preoccupations is not a band many would call “comforting.” Instead the Canadian post-punk quartet prefers to dwell on darker subjects. Their third album, “New Material,” finds lead singer and bassist Matt Flegel battling against heavy concepts like nuclear warfare and the looming specter of death.

It might have been another cozy bedtime moment — my twin sons and I chatting after light’s out — but for Gege’s endearment. “I love you, Mama, because you cuddle,” he said. I squeezed him, enjoying the weight of him in my arms — among the countless hugs we’ve shared since he was an infant and now as he’s approaching the end of first grade.

Cats are harder to spot in a public park than dogs. Perhaps that was my first problem when I arrived in Dolores Park on Saturday afternoon for First Caturday: San Francisco, a gathering of cats, their owners and their enthusiasts. On its Facebook page, the location of Caturday is very clear. An overhead photograph of Dolores Park is amended with large circles meant to represent exactly where cats were due to converge. But upon my arrival, 30 minutes after Caturday’s 1:30 p.m.

From the emails I receive, it seems what readers like most about this column is that it humorously reflects on the realities of life. With that in mind, I’ve got a doozy of a story to tell. Basically, it starts with my wife thinking she might be having a heart attack and ends with me winning $5 on the golf course. In between, there are lessons to be learned.