“Gonna to move to the Bay Area now, pretend that was your dream the whole time? Have fun always carrying a light sweater.” With this vicious jab, 30 Rock‘s Jenna Maroney managed to hold a rival ingénue at bay while also making fun of our ridiculous climate. But who’s laughing now, New York? Our highs are 60 degrees warmer than your lows. Have fun burying yourself in a heavy parka. 

It’s not altogether positive, of course. This exceptional burst of mid-winter warmth really ought to be an onslaught of heavy storms to replenish the Sierra’s snowpack and California’s reservoirs, and it’s hard not feel a tiny bit anxious about climate change and water rationing. But it’s just so nice out! And next week it might get even nicer! When the next polar vortex dumps a foot of snow on Miami, we can bask in our endless, hotter-than-summer warmth, knowing every extra degree brings out something special about San Francisco:

At 70˚, the line for Bi-Rite collides with line for Humphry Slocombe, scuffles break out, and Stanley Roberts of KRON does a “People Behaving Badly” segment.

At 71˚, Debbie Downer on the 33-Stanyan won’t shut up about the Delta smelt, transfers to the 14-Mission and starts going on about the El Niño year.

At 72˚, near-naked guys sunning in the parklet at Castro and Market adjust their penis sheaths to maximize exposure.

At 73˚, all empty threats to move to Detroit – where you can buy a 5-BR, 3 1/2-BA Edwardian mansion for $85,000 but it is currently snowing with a wind chill of -12 – cease.

At 74˚, sweaty dudebros jump into the ocean at Baker Beach, only to beat a hasty retreat back to fleece jackets and coolers full of Bud Light Lime because damn, that shit is still like what, maybe 45˚?

At 75˚, all phone calls home suspended indefinitely after innocuous chat about the weather results in Mom letting fly unparalleled stream of vitriol and Dad hanging up.

At 76˚, wait, it’s 57˚ and foggy in Pacifica? How is that even possible? 

At 77˚, people who’ve lived in the Bay Area their entire lives start to complain about “the humidity.”

At 78˚, OMG, get the hell out of here, Rice-a-Roni! Short sleeves after 4 p.m. in January is the real San Francisco Treat.

At 79˚, Skynet becomes self-aware in Palo Alto, aborts plans to enslave humanity, opting instead to chill at Dolores.

At 80˚, farmers' market vendors step out from under the cabana. Ellis Act evictees pause in the doorframe. Cyclists on the Wiggle crane their necks skyward. People in line at State Bird close their eyes. GBUS to MTV riders sigh at the window. Guys banging on buckets outside the Westfield Center look up. For one day, at least, everyone across San Francisco takes a deep breath of warm air, realizing just how lucky we all are to live here.