It is eight a.m. and Mother Nature’s tears are falling down my window with the sort of slow crawl one would expect from a day’s depression. There is an incessant thup thup of raindrops upon my roof and the sky is the color of wet cement. Outside, things have a swelling about them. The avian silence is disturbed only by the whoosh of passing cars and the thupping.
Strange things happen beneath Los Angeles stormclouds: Licensed citizens lose their ability to steer vehicles and Triple-A trucks appear like beach lifeguards during riptides. Botoxed eyes become become wider, as though waterlogging has taken place, only to later dehydrate into dermatological rivulets. Three-hundred dollar Brazilian-blowout haircuts experience post-ejaculation-like collapses. People who live in towns named Sherman Oaks and Calabasas wear galoshes while impish youth jump in puddles and yell things like “Galoshes Kiboshes Boboshes” until you feel your ears start to bleed. Seriously drunk men dressed in Leprechaun outfits parole the streets singing odd Irish dittys and shouting obscene limericks with enough vigor to make your average family man cringe. Upturned lips now succumb to some insurmountable gravitational pull, as though trying to keep up with the sagging pants and un-lifted breasts now frequenting the urban jungle. Valet parking attendants bitch, a lot. Housewives carrying fierce-faced children in leftward-pulling strollers shout things like “dammit” and then “DAMMIT,” heedlessly. Grown men sport folded newspapers above their heads – presumably to ward off the downpour – but effectively creating a shredding, toilet-papery mass that crumbles against their still-soaked hair in a way that reminds one of a sparse winter on the ski slopes. Everyone walks like Quasimodo or has that “I don’t know” hunch we all get when asked questions like ‘If you dig a hole through the center of the earth and jump in, will you stay at the center because of gravity?’ In order to avoid inch-deep puddles, people perform awkward hops ending with two-toe-landings and graceless spins. nCar wash owners amble around with lemon-sucking expressions. In parking lots, small children rotate their heads back and forth in ADHD-ish amazement at the apparent seductiveness of windshield wipers. Individuals, who’ve never performed a cardiovascular movement, run at full tilt, pounding high heels or patent leather shoes into wet sidewalks as coffee-drinking onlookers sit and wait for the inevitable slip. Sunscreen sales subside. Dogs endeavor to bite running water in ways that make one think “Rabies.” Rational people experience near-orgasmic screams and preternatural arousal over the very natural and everyday occurrence known as a fucking rainbow. Surrounded by other executives, male employees exhibit amateurish humor by pretending to poke female derrieres with the spikey ends of damp umbrellas, regrettably. Folks who grew up in Los Angeles and never purchased anything thicker than a long sleeve t-shirt now run around huddled and shivering and wishing they’d whisked out the ol’ Visa for a jacket at some point in their blessed lives.
This is LA in the rain….and some parts of the world would give their house for a few drops of water….