Thursday, September 09, 2004

Rain, rain, rain. The mangled ghost of Frances is passing overhead, even as we speak. Pennsylvania is sort of like the rear axle of a Greyhound bus when it comes to hurricanes. The front of the vehicle might get totaled by a deer, and the mid-chassis can get banged up by what's left, but all we ever see is a spray of gore and bone-chips. This is just a really persistent rainstorm.

I really don't understand why people feel the need to move to Florida. Hot as hell, humid beyond belief, flat as a pancake, full of gators, and ground zero for at least one hurricane a season. Hope my parents' new retirement home came through the second hurricane intact. Our in-house opinion seems to be that Ivan isn't going to make the hat trick for Florida, blessed be. Jay says somewhere in the Gulf, no matter what the computer models suggest.

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