A mere week ago, I was blathering on about the unseasonably pleasant (merely high double digits) weather here in good old TJ. Ah, but it seems I spoke too soon. We had a triple digit kind of weekend (109 degrees, or so the crazy old man with the thermometer says), and last Sunday night, 'round about just after midnight, we who were sleeping the sleep of the just (or at least the sleep of the righteously drunk), were awakened by the sound of terrorist planes dropping bombs. No, actually, it was only thunder. There once was a time, a more innocent time, that we would have known this. (Cue the music, Raoul).
Lightning slashed from the sky, and threatened our rooftops with fire. Thunder boomed, and so forth. Then came the welcome rain. Very unusual that was, for So-Cal. Alas, the rain ended all too soon, and we returned to our usual programming. And so it goes, in Swelter City. They (whoever "they" are) say that there are a million stories in the naked city. Well, this is one of them. Only I am not naked. If I were, I would stick to my leather chair, and that wouldn't feel very good.
Over and out.
end of transmission
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