It's Sunday afternoon and I'm devoting a moment or two to what the authorities say is something that I do best. I'm sleeping. For a precious number of minutes, the demons are gone. REM time is my best time.
My rationale for catching a quick nap, is that after working all week,and putting up with all the urban chaos that is Los Angeles: Dog Days Heat. Rising gas prices. Galloping Inflation, forcing me to dial back on my life-long subscription to The Police Gazette, and as I'm putting my working-man ration of gas into my car, coping with the relentless harassment by the Homeless, asking me for money.
Most of them look healthier than I am and they're asking me for money?
Can't they get a job like everyone else? Maybe I need a vacation or a dial-up on my medication? It's getting scary. All the Homeless are starting to look like my brother-in-law.
His alter-egos usually appear in the shadows and are usually lecturing me on how to get a better job, how to live a more meaningful life, and offering to text me their Zelle number.
I figured with the specter of Hurricane Hilary heading into LA, I could avoid worries about the rain and the wind by catching a few Zzzs. I was wrong. Again.
As I was enjoying my unconscious staycation, I was rattled awake by the earthquake in Ventura County. As if all the Monsoon rain and wind wasn't enough, now an earthquake. Welcome to LA! I'm still happy.
Happy and smiling again, like a Death Row inmate granted a Midnight parole.
Happy because a dear lady I know finally has an abundance of rain for her home garden.
Mother California now has some rain to help grow her flowers and trees and home-garden plants.
No worries. All in all, it's been a great Sunday.
But, enough about me...
