It Never Rains in Southern California
Well, it seems the so-called “Atmospheric River” has, once again, paid us a visit here on the mountain and everywhere else in the now-soggy Southland.
Anyhoo, it reminds me of the time I flew out to Honolulu with the wife and kids back in ’97. When we landed, they were having a torrential rainstorm, which is quite common over there, but I didn’t have my rubber boots, only my formerly dry, now soggy Vans and some leather sandals, which were good for going down to the pool or the beach at the Outrigger Hotel on Waikiki Beach.
“Got on board a westbound seven forty-seven, didn’t think before deciding what to do. Ooh, that talk of opportunities, TV breaks and movies rang true, rang true. Seems it never rains in Southern California; seems I’ve often heard that kind of talk before. It never rains in Southern California, but girl, don’t they warn ya? It pours, man, it pours.” (“It Never Rains in Southern California” – Albert Hammond – 1972)
Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute, Albert, I’m talkin’ ‘bout Hawaii, not Southern California. But it is true: Man, when it rains, it really pours, just like it’s been doing for almost two weeks, not to mention the snow. Oh, I already mentioned the snow.
It’s Christmas morning as I write this Musing, the final one of 2021, and the Missus is over there, sitting on the couch, telling me to “Stay on topic, Mott.” “All right, already.” Anyway, there are three new invited guests and they should really enjoy their Fancy Feast. Wait a gol dern minute, I thought we wuz havin’ a juicy rib roast.
Oh, now I remember, our newest guests, Albert, Freckles and Ginger are…guess what? How about you with your hand up, who do you suppose they are? No, not the next-door neighbors. They are cute little kittens!
So, as I mentioned earlier, this is Christmas Day and Mom is cooking up a juicy rib roast for our invited guests, mostly family members and an out-of-town friend of our oldest boy. “Someone is at the door, dear, would you mind seeing who it is?”
“Well, what a surprise this is,” I bellowed, “It’s none other than Tiger Woods and his young son, Charlie. Say, Tiger, shouldn’t you be up at the Lake Arrowhead Country Club, practicing for your upcoming PGA tournament in Hawaii?” “That’s right, I almost forgot. Come on Charlie, we need to get to the airport. See y’all later.” “Let me guess, he’ll be boarding a west-bound 747,” I muttered to myself.
Anyway, I hope all of you had a Merry Little Christmas and I’ll be seeing you again, same time, same station on January 6, 2022.
“It never rains in Southern California, but girl, don’t they warn ya? It pours, man, it pours.”
Keep it flyin’ Uncle Mott