Ropes of Sand

You are Like a Hurricane...

In which I admit to preferring the Roxy Music version to the Neil Young original.

Anywho, I have now become some sort of official Floridian, having survived a hurricane.

As an aside, almost all of this year's hurricane names have some connection to my ex-wife's family. Coincidence? I think not. http://www.fema.gov/kids/hunames3.htm. Sadly, there is no Ophelia in the family.

On Thursday, ominous automatic signs (the ones that usually say Left Lane Closed when they are on I-80) started popping up around town: "Are You Prepared?" It was like that movie "On the Beach" where everyone committed suicide before the nuclear fallout could kill them--"There is Still Time, Brother."

And I met one of my neighbors last week. Who was an ass. He knocked on my door at 8AM Monday and asked when the moving truck would be gone. The moving truck that had just arrived.

Now, if I were writing a short story, it would be too neat to tell you that said neighbor's house looks like a backwoods shack decorated by John Boorman (look up obscure film reference, please) or that the neighbor's wife told me this morning that she'd just gotten the parrot back from the bird whisperer. But I would really get crucified for the ending, in which the neighbor's house gets smashed by a falling tree.

It nearly killed the parrot, but latest reports from the whisperer indicate that the parrot is a remarkably strong bird, and will pull through.

Meanwhile, after a couple of hours of cleanup, the pool is now open for business.

In other news, apparently PhD programs require you to take a whole bunch of literature classes.

posted by Kistulentz @ Monday, July 11, 2005