Stand for the things you know are right
It’s the truth that the truth makes them so uptight
Category: Music that doesn’t suck
R.I.P., Brian Wilson
Now it’s dark. And he’s alone. But he won’t be afraid. Peace to Brian Wilson, his family, friends, and many, many fans.
Give us your favorite Beach Boys tunes in comments. This is one of mine.
For some reason I had “I Get Around” stuck in my head the other day. Maybe because I did. Always looking for a place where the kids were hip.
R.I.P., Sly Stone
Sly Stone left the building today in — of all places — Los Angeles. He was 82.
That Next World Orchestra. Whoo. I’m in no hurry to catch ’em live, if that word even applies … but still, damn. Dance to the music, y’all.
After the deluge
We got 0.28 inch of rain yesterday in about 28 seconds, so, ’ray for us.
The deluge will not resolve our water issues, though it ended the struggles of at least one poor soul whose last known address was a washout down near Edith and Roy.
We stayed indoors where it couldn’t get us. Well, mostly.
Herself took her chances with an early run. I held out hope for a bike ride, and if I’d moved fast I could’ve had one, too.
But fast is not my speed. So instead of risking a good soaking I dithered, waffled, and procrastinated, and then finally tottered out for a short run and never even got my shoes damp, though at one point I was jogging up a sandy arroyo that feeds into that long flume ride downtown.
Then, later that afternoon, boom, down it came.
Riders on the storm
It was fury in the foothills most of yesterday and well into the night.
The rain started as I was driving home after dropping Herself at the Sunport. Then came the wind, a few rounds of dime-sized hail shotgunning the backyard maple (which shed leaves and one sizable dead limb) and the roses (still plenty of them left for the deer to eat), and more rain.
And finally the light show captured above.
Herself’s flight to Maine was not without drama. First Southwest couldn’t fuel her plane because of lightning. Then the fuel truck didn’t have enough go-juice to top off the tanks, so another had to be pressed into service.
By the time she got off the tarmac an hour late it was clear that making her connecting flight in Baltimore was going to be iffy. The plan had been to grab a bite to eat and chill a bit between planes, but you know what they say about plans.
So Herself touches down with just enough time to hit the bathroom, join the queue for boarding, and find her seat … after which there was another extended wait for a couple dozen passengers who had been delayed for reason(s) unknown. She could’ve had a sitdown meal, an adult beverage, and a nap, but nooooo. …
The long and the short of it? A flight that was supposed to arrive at stupid-thirty in Portland instead touched down at extra-double-stupid thirty.
And it’s raining there, too.
I stayed up way past my bedtime to provide moral support encoded in bad language. Once Herself was finally settling into her hotel room I turned out the light and … and then Thor turned it back on, as you see.
The flickering electrical display that brought me out of a fitful doze was utterly silent. No thunder at all. Thor was pulling his punches. Or maybe Mjölnir needed recharging. Odin knows I do. And Herself still faces a couple hours in a car this morning before she reaches what the airlines like to call her “final destination.”
Whenever the Thunder God gets his iHammer back up to four bars maybe he can have a couple swings at Beelzebozo. The senile old fool currently propped up as “president” of the “United States” doesn’t know what the Declaration of Independence means or what the Constitution requires of him.
Riders on the storm, indeed.
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