I Do Not Live in Seattle

Sometimes, it feels like it. I'm from California. It doesn't rain in the summer in California. Sometimes, maybe. I remember once, when I was in Chico waiting for something in the microwave, a dinner of some sort, I heard an outrageous clap of thunder and went over to the sliding-glass door. The ensuing rainstorm was amazing. That was back when I loved the rain. Back when I wasn't used to experience rain. But New York. Fucking rain. All the time it seems, mostly in the summer. Rain in the summer time has songs and stories. But here you have to walk in it. Sometimes you have to walk in it blocks at a time without an umbrella because just thirty-seven minutes earlier the sky was blue and looked to be staying that way in a state of humidity. When you do have an umbrella, and the sky opens up with rain falling at seventy-five miles an hour, you have to negotiate idiots' inability to operate theirs. I've often wondered what people with beach umbrellas are thinking. Not all are bad. Some actually consider the fact that they have to share the sidewalk with a million and five other people carrying pitiful umbrellas. I had one such pitiful umbrella. Pitiful only because it isn't a gigantic substitute for a penis. (It's usually men with the big ones.) Speeding west on 32nd street to the train, I start left and go right trying to get around two meanderers without a clue. Uh oh. Up ahead are three individuals, all with umbrellas, one of them a penis, I have to drop my head down and thrust my umbrella up to fit between the barrage. This isn't fun. All the while, my pitiful umbrella is only keeping my head dry. Both arms are now soaked, as are the contents of my backpack, including a copy of Wonder Boys that a colleague let me borrow. Looks like it's mine now. This is all I have to say tonight. It rains all the time in New York, it seems. And it's getting really old. Enough already with the midday thunderstorms. Wait till I'm home and can enjoy the sound over a little Kathy Griffin.