I’m only happy when it rains

Los Angeles can be so ungrateful. Just weeks after the the city nearly burned down, the rain that usually waits until, at the earliest, Halloween arrived in amounts that anywhere else would seem innocuous.

And people were angry about it.

“How about THIS RAIN?” someone at the PTA meeting said last night. “I wonder if school will be cancelled?”

“Yes,” I said. “I might have to jump in the L.A. River just to dry off.”

There is some concern that mudslides off denuded hillsides will do to homes what the fires couldn’t.

Still, my morning commute was often interrupted, even as my windshield wipers were on their lowest frequency, by people stopping in intersections and having no idea what to do about the rain. It’s Los Angeles; can’t people think of the rain as more-wet bullets?

At the gas station a team from a local NBC affiliate was getting reactions about the storm that was “battering” Southern California.

“In Massachusetts it’s not considered battery until your own teeth are in your stool,” I should have said, but didn’t.

We need the rain. The cracked streets of the city are like Abel’s blood crying from the ground. And I’m like “Well what did you expect, Abel?”

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