But she's no meter maid, nor do I think any of the remaining Beatles will make a song about her.
Rita is due to make landfall Saturday 2am. This time her path, interestingly enough, is straight toward Texas. Mas peculiar, hombre. Ordinarily, hurricanes entering the Gulf tend to turn northwards and hit around MS or so, but this time the arc is wayyyy to the West, and seems ready to pulverise Galveston. Which puts us, poor water-starved (19" below seasonal norms) LA square on the eastern wall of the storm. The side that gets all the grief.
I know, I shouldn't be flip, especially in light of Katrina and all that she revealed, but right now I'd sell my left little toe for some rainfall. Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING that was once green and growing out here is now brown and dying, and despite my best efforts with the Rain Train and miles of hose pipe I simply cannot keep the green stuff growing. This depresses me muchly.
Off subject, I think I'm going to have to switch blogging times to the pee-em, rather than the aye-em time slot. See, I used to be a sadist, making myself get up at 5:30 to get ready for the day, and that usually left me a space of about 40 minutes to blog. You guys recall those days, the long, rambling, seeming incoherent posts, the really interminable ones that made you want to tear your eyes out in frustration. Well, as you might have noticed those have been curtailed just a little bit.
See, I've started waking up at 6 instead, preferring that extra half hour to sleep, and my blogging has suffered because of that. Mea maxima culpa. But you see, this blogging thing is also therapy for me (and no, I'm not going to start paying you guys $115 an hour to listen to me for 45 minutes, either.) I rather need this time to sit and write, to blow off whatever steam might have accumulated, and to sharpen my wit, which is partial to dulling rather fast. It's amasing how fast one tin can (RMB) can dull the sharp blade of a mind. It's like some kind of mental disease--it sneaks up on you unbeknownst, and before you realise it you're slumping around the office talking like an extra from a B movie western and you're seriously considering marrying your cousin because she has most of her teeth and childbearing hips, plus one running vehicle.
So I need to get my arse in gear and start writing at night. But we've got the Season 1 set of Lost, and THAT damned thing is keeping me wound tight and in front of the tube at night. I love/hate mysteries, and they spring about three an episode on me.