1. Friday, November 8, 2002

    Seems it never rains in southern California 

    Seems I’ve often heard that kind of talk before

    It never rains in California,

    but girl don’t they warn ya

    It pours,

    man, it pours

    two inches of rain in los angeles is like thirty inches of snow in maui, everyone freaks out, no one knows what to do, so they do what they normally do, drive fast while talking on their cell phones crashing into each other and never accepting fault.

    the rain started yesterday around rush hour. people here seem to think that the faster you drive in the rain the less it will affect the wax job on their lexus’s. some are right.

    wrong was the blonde skaterboy on his wooden longboard who tried to make a left onto wilshire and wiped out landing on his ass, launching his coffee mug of oatmeal into the drizzle and his deck into the honking traffic.

    wrong was the subterrainian metro that, only in la, could be thirty minutes behind schedule due to weather despite being completely dry, miles below the metropolis.

    wrong was the choice of the glamor girl who chose skin tight suede, shivvering below her dilapidated umbrella old with age, and flapping from crappiness.

    five dolares sang the spuds mckenzie umbrella hawker at wilshire and western admiring his roll of cash secured with damp rubberband as we lined up to board the bus whose floors were wet whose windows were foggy whose seats were wet whose passengers were wet whose driver told her boss she had to take a 1031.

    use the mcdonalds on crescent heights he said on the radio staticky due to the weather.

    what about the jack in the box on la brea she asked and added over.

    whereever you can, baby, he answered back with an over and out.

    it’s like theyve never seen this ever before yet it comes down every year.

    rain in the city means snow in the slopes but everyone crashes before they get there. everyone.

    sweet little jetta rear ends land rover who slowed down to a near stop as it delicately maneuvers over the inch high speed bumps in the office courtyard.

    i arrive at work a half hour late grateful that the bossman had the foresight to trust fritz the weatherman and took a personal day when he heard there’d be rain.

    secretary says, welcome to work when i punch the clock and remove my trench coat.

    it was work just getting to work i tell her and she kisses my forehead and pats my sweet ass.

    dirty fez