Sunday, October 12, 2014

Rain God or Rain Bitch?

I don't really think I'm a Rain God. Douglas Adams of Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy fame described one in that trilogy's fourth book:  The Rain God was an English over the road truck driver who delivered freight all over Europe in the rain.  Always in the rain.  He had seen so much rain that he had literally hundreds of names for different kinds of rain.  He hated the rain.  But the rain loved him, it considered Him to be its God and wanted to shower Him with its gifts and love and praise forever.  I think this is the predicament of The One True God (tm) :  constantly being pestered by the things He created telling him He's so swell when He already knows, yowling 'praise music' like tortured cats and then bellowing about their great spiritual yearning to get tickets to the Lorde concert, preferably back stage passes.  It's all a bit tedious for an infinite God who has developed literally millions of synonyms for mooch.

It turns out that I am an Ant God of sorts - at least for the Ants in my Ant Farm because they're always petitioning me for more grubs and crickets and sacrificing virgins to me as if I didn't know that virtually all ants are virgins.  Dumb bugs.   But I'm probably not a rain God because my super rain powers don't seem to extend much beyond the Houston metropolitan area and only are in evidence when the area has a surfeit or as the local Anglo Saxon dialect puts it a "shitload" of rain. But whether in Anglo Norman or Texas Saxon the fact is that I tend to attract the rain whenever I go outside.  Perhaps I'm a Regional Demigod?  I doubt it because the rain around here doesn't so much shower me with love as kick my ass.  No, I suspect that I'm nothing more than the Rain's bitch.  At least in Houston.

And I really can't help it - I have to walk.  And walk and walk and walk.  I walk because I need to think, I walk to stop thinking, I walk because it keeps me from imagining that I am the long lost member of Led Zeppelin who wrote all of their good songs not Jimmy and Robert, those fakers and I walk to avoid the stares of the all of the people who think I really do look like a washed up rock and roll has been. But I have to walk and I do it outside.  In the middle of the day in the middle of summer in Houston, TX because I'm not wimpy.  Nuts? yes. But not wimpy.  And inevitably when I do so, it rains.  People ask me "why in the heck don't you check the radar thingummy before you go out you big dope?" And you sir look as if your a sharp thinking chap yourself, thank you for that well aimed insult:  I do check the radar and never go out if there are any storms headed my way but those of you who live on America's South Coast know that sometimes storms just 'pop up' for no reason whatsoever and begin raining cats and dogs. Not that they really rain house pets which would be cool in a really messy and tragic way but it rains a lot - big huge drops with thunder and lightning and streams forming on the edges of streets.  In other words, a typical light shower in Houston.

And the thing is they always seem to 'pop' 'up' right above me.  It won't start until I'm at the standard "too damned far from home to get back without being soaked" distance which varies based upon the planned storm's intensity and scope but is never less than one half mile (and no I don't know that in Kilometers: I'm a rain bitch not a Demigod) and then it begins to sprinkle and quickly turns torrential so that everything on me gets soaked.   You can't imagine how many sets of earbuds I've had to replace because the rain pools in my ears and shorts them out.  Sigh.

I've tried to control my super power by commanding the rain to halt only to cause bystanders who - seeing my shouting and waving in the rain - say "look at that poor washed up old rock star, he really must have done too many drugs" to which I respond "I am not old and washed up, OK, so I'm old but I'm not washed up" to which they point out that I'm standing in a torrential rainstorm soaked to the bone so I say "Ok so I am old and washed up but I'm not a rock star and besides that's not the point" to which they roll their eyes and back carefully away from me with their umbrellas held slightly forward in the modified "brolly En Garde" position.

I've tried to leverage my powers into money by threatening the local baseball team:  The Astros.  Assholes are more like it:  they laugh at me and say "who cares? nobody comes to our games anyway, besides we have a roof that we can put up" and of course the Texans have a roof too and the boys at Rice University stink so nobody goes to their games even though they don't have a roof.  In fact, the one time I did a little demonstration there the entire Freshman class came out to do meteorological experiments on me for extra credit. Gosh darn geeks. No my powers can only be used for good. If you define good as whatever the hell the clouds want done which I don't.

I think to get any traction on this rain bitch thing I'm going to need some help from the Ice Queen.  She has the ability to turn anything she comes near into solid ice - a lot like my old....hamster did.  So what if I got together with this La Reine des Glaces cum Hamster and we had a rave somewhere nearby when the Super Bowl is in Houston?  How much could an inch of solid ice on everything harsh the NFL's buzz?  I'm sure that one will be worth millions but the Ice Queen is such a French....personality that it is going to take all of my powers of persuasion to get her to whip her iciness out when I need it to pull the "sting" off.  French Cubes are certainly the Coldest Cubes, aren't they?

Saturday, October 11, 2014


I saw her the moment she entered the sanctuary. She was wearing a long, stylish black raincoat that glistened from the raindrops she shook off. Her hair was chestnut made damp by the rain with a few drizzled strands stuck to her impossibly white forehead. Not flesh but ivory white and glowing from its rain kissed moistness. High, flawless cheeks flanked full crimson lips parted ever so slightly as she panted cat-like to catch her breath. For a moment she stood amidst the sitters as if she was taking a census of all the sheep – my flock. It was a feral, almost predatory aspect that set her apart from the other congregants sitting in placid somnolence, not yet knowing that something had changed - that a predator had slipped in their midst.

As I spoke, I couldn’t help stealing glances. At first, consumed with her survey she didn’t look back. Then suddenly she sat straight and stared. I stuttered and almost stopped but willed myself to keep speaking, my chest pounding. I couldn’t hear my words from the blood roaring in my ears. I glanced back: still staring. Again, staring. And again and again and again. I came to my conclusion and read it word for word lest I trail off into incoherence. When I finally looked up she was gone. How? I do not know, just gone. Later through careful, indirect questioning I would conclude that no one had seen her but me.

That rainy winter's morning was the first time I’d regretted leaving the porn business since I had become a Priest.  I knew it wouldn't be the last.