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Monday had nothing memorable to follow Sunday's weather spectacle, and if it had I'd most likely have missed it as I slept for hours and hours, and didn't even get out to the mailbox until dusk. There was the latest issue of Wired, bent but not wet. Good timing. I'm pretty sure I fixed something for dinner— no, wait. I microwaved something for dinner— and then I went back to sleep before midnight.
Waking around three o'clock this morning and getting up half an hour later I have since thought about arranging to have a nephew pick up a 9-volt battery for the second smoke alarm which has begun chirping its low battery chirp at me, and change it for me. He's tall enough to yank the device from the ceiling without using a chair or ladder. I'm not, and would fall over if I stood on anything that far off the ground at this late date. There are a couple of other items I could have him pick up from that drug store for me, too, although I don't have any good coupons from there right now. Bad timing.
I've lately finished a breakfast of chili-cheese Fritos and avocado, washed down with a rum and Coke (slightly de-sweetened with a bit of cola flavored sparkling water.) Don't snark, it's a traditional California breakfast. That's a lie, of course. I just had one of those inexplicable nostalgia cravings and had a childhood afternoon snack while the sun not-rose over the soggy mini-metropolis. I listened to Art Garfunkel's "I Only Have Eyes for You" while eating it, and now have tastelessly mingled eras in my head, outraging my interior interior decorator, though who gives a rat's ass what that jerk thinks. He never made me a cent, and doesn't even help me decorate my places, the pretentious fraud.
Anyway, growing dementia and pending schizotypal behavior aside I'm feeling oddly cheerful at the moment, and would like to congratulate Los Angeles on surviving another fifty-year storm (or as a famous rapper might call it a fitty-year storm.) I remember the one in January, 1969, though the paper journal in which I wrote about it was lost in the fire. A few places near my then house did flood, and to this day the pictures of the Los Angeles river in full, raging flood show upon the Idernets. I saw one last night, which probably triggered todays nostalgia. But the last storm in the current atmospheric river is due later tonight and tomorrow, and after that the weather will likely settle down until after mid-February, after which it could rain some more. Apparently it's still raining in Los Angeles this morning, though. Maybe my congratulations were premature.
My caffeine from Coke and alcohol from rum are fighting it out right now, and I can't tell if I'm tired or wide awake. If I'm more wide awake I think I'll probably eat some more, but if I'm more tired I'll probably have a nap. I might compromise and go soak my feet, which have been itchy for the last couple of hours. I think the sun is going to come out, which will not be conducive to napping. Weird night. Weird day. Weird month.
Waking around three o'clock this morning and getting up half an hour later I have since thought about arranging to have a nephew pick up a 9-volt battery for the second smoke alarm which has begun chirping its low battery chirp at me, and change it for me. He's tall enough to yank the device from the ceiling without using a chair or ladder. I'm not, and would fall over if I stood on anything that far off the ground at this late date. There are a couple of other items I could have him pick up from that drug store for me, too, although I don't have any good coupons from there right now. Bad timing.
I've lately finished a breakfast of chili-cheese Fritos and avocado, washed down with a rum and Coke (slightly de-sweetened with a bit of cola flavored sparkling water.) Don't snark, it's a traditional California breakfast. That's a lie, of course. I just had one of those inexplicable nostalgia cravings and had a childhood afternoon snack while the sun not-rose over the soggy mini-metropolis. I listened to Art Garfunkel's "I Only Have Eyes for You" while eating it, and now have tastelessly mingled eras in my head, outraging my interior interior decorator, though who gives a rat's ass what that jerk thinks. He never made me a cent, and doesn't even help me decorate my places, the pretentious fraud.
Anyway, growing dementia and pending schizotypal behavior aside I'm feeling oddly cheerful at the moment, and would like to congratulate Los Angeles on surviving another fifty-year storm (or as a famous rapper might call it a fitty-year storm.) I remember the one in January, 1969, though the paper journal in which I wrote about it was lost in the fire. A few places near my then house did flood, and to this day the pictures of the Los Angeles river in full, raging flood show upon the Idernets. I saw one last night, which probably triggered todays nostalgia. But the last storm in the current atmospheric river is due later tonight and tomorrow, and after that the weather will likely settle down until after mid-February, after which it could rain some more. Apparently it's still raining in Los Angeles this morning, though. Maybe my congratulations were premature.
My caffeine from Coke and alcohol from rum are fighting it out right now, and I can't tell if I'm tired or wide awake. If I'm more wide awake I think I'll probably eat some more, but if I'm more tired I'll probably have a nap. I might compromise and go soak my feet, which have been itchy for the last couple of hours. I think the sun is going to come out, which will not be conducive to napping. Weird night. Weird day. Weird month.
