Tuesday, July 21, 2009

July 21

Days of rain reported for rest of week, at least according to NOAA. My Accuweather widget begs to differ with the federal prognosis, which always tends to be gloomier and more downbeat - and hence more accurate than Accu. The government tells you to be prepared and expect the worst, the private sector says just smile, plan that picnic and hope for the best. It's good for business.

And it's drizzling right now. Most of what I have to do this week is outdoors and involves electricity. Water and juice mix with shocking results. Plus I hate getting wet. I'm a sailor. Staying dry and un-drowned is our preoccupation. Worst of all is biking in wet weather. You can't use an umbrella (well maybe you can) and all the water's flying up from the street, so you get probably ten times as wet as a pedestrian. Plus your braking is reduced. Why doesn't Smart Car make a pedi-version. To me they look like they must be pedal-powered anyway or maybe propelled Fred Flintstone style. I might be able to fit in a small toolkit if there was no passenger. By the way, did you know that those cute windup toys are made by Daimler-Benz? Smart. Freddie says that they have special vertical parking lots in Berlin just for them.

Left the house, chilly, turned back for my wool sweater. Biked downtown. When I hit the South End it started to shower and then after Blackstone Park just plain rain all the way to Beacon Hill. Arrived wet, but wool-wet and if you're wet in wool you're still warm, fairly dry, and breathing, not soaked in sweat. I'll take it over any miracle fabric any day.

Did my thing. Maria turned up! The hot Brazilian beauty. We chatted. Missed her racing out to catch a lull in the storm. Got caught on the last leg of the way back too. Walked under a streaming umbrella for awhile pushing the bike, fording streams between stretches of sidewalk. Shot the shit with Charles for a second. Stripped, dried and tried to decide what to do next, if anything.

According to E.B. White he used to regularly arrive at the New Yorker early in the morning and diligently begin writing by typing, The. Then often around noon he'd continue by adding, hell with it, and go out to lunch. An inspiration.