Not My House

Back in the 1960's-1970's, The Los Angeles Times published a Sunday magazine called West. I have some issues of it somewhere out in the garage, moldering away. It was a nicely designed, surprisingly ambitious supplement to the Sunday paper for several years, but never very successful financially. Eventually, its run ended, and a number of years later the paper came out with the Los Angeles Times Magazine, which I never found as interesting as West had been. I just discovered that today, The Times will revive the name West for its revamped Sunday magazine. I won't be able to compare it to the original, as I'm not in Los Angeles anymore, and I don't think there's an out-of-town-paper vendor within sixty miles of this place. I'm a bit curious about it, though.

A genuine chill pervades the air tonight. This will add a few more wintry hours to this season's meager toll. I heard more waterfowl flying north. The cold doesn't seem to have intimidated them. I guess they are eager to get back to their breeding grounds and have sex.

There will be a window of opportunity today to go to the store and not have to stand in line, because of the football. The streets will be just about empty, too (not that they're ever all that full in these parts.) I hope to wake early enough to take advantage of it. That means to bed soon.

( Sunday Verse )

Serene

I do love Super Bowl Sunday, when the town falls silent and the traffic lights flash for nobody on the nearly empty streets. Most of the handful of customers in the stores were older women,perhaps on beer runs for their husbands. I got through Safeway in about ten minutes. It was like going back in time. Then, at dusk, the cricket began to chirp. For some reason, the frogs are silent tonight. Are they football fans? Or maybe their pond is drying out. This evening, the only sound is the breeze in the pines. I wish we could have Super Bowl every Sunday. And now I'm going to go watch something completely different.