It's a cool night in Los Angeles after weeks of record temperatures. The sky has finally wretched out much of the smoke from the Station Fire. Perhaps we've all used our lungs as a collective of filters to clear the foul smoke filled air from the sky. Perhaps perhaps perhaps.
Why have I started this blog? Yes, why indeed.
I just received a message from a friend on the road. She claims to have seen santa while on the road to Monterey. He's early this year. Is this to be taken as an omen? Has Santa taken to reconoitering early this year? Maybe the FAA has finally clamped down on him. He's taken to hitchhiking, unable to certify his sled for flight, maybe behind on his sled payments. It was dragged out of his driveway by black towtrucks at gunpoint, on orders of the bank. His house, the village, may be next. No, he thumbs it now, from city to city, forced to chat with the driver just long enough to ensure he knows that the man commenderring the passenger seat, while dressed funny, is harmless. The process is repeated over and over again until the map is traversed. When Christmas time rolls around, be generous with your rides people, this is a man on a mission, and it does us all well to pull over and help him get his sack into the trunk.
The claims of economic turnaround may have been premature. The Santa index is grim. Am I reading too much into this? Santa, like many others around town, are losing their homes on the heels of their livelihood. I hope he does the honorable thing and shoot all the windows out of the village and set off a small firebomb in the living room before slamming the door shut on the mailbox that contains "FINAL NOTICE's" and the house keys. The bank doesn't want the village, but they must take it. So, fuck it, the misers get what they deserve; a burned out hulk, that costs more money to bulldoze than it's worth. This is how we save our souls, how we fight back. I'm with you Santa. I'm with the Santa soliderity front.
If I was an elf, I'd be contemplating a new profession... maybe movie extra work, or crawlspace maintenance. They had better stay the fuck away from this place. I have cats, I don't need more things to trip over. And certainly not dressed as a candystriping Robin Hood. With the contempt the cats treat the full sized people at the compound, I wonder what the reaction would be to an overly-helpful, overly-cheerful dwarf trying to scratch Hercules' belly? The results would be bloody.
Why am I blogging? Hell knows. We'll find out, won't we?
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