"Feels Like Rain..."

That it does: feels like rain. It's quite warm, humid, and there are thunderstorms in today's forecast... and for the rest of the week, as well. To top that off we got yet more rain last night and a rather significant amount, too... the Unofficial Beautiful La Hacienda Trailer Park Rain Gauge had about an inch and a half of water in it this morning. Doubtless we got a lot less precip than that. As I said: the Unofficial rain gauge.

So... we're back from Cannon Airplane Patch, having completed our bi-weekly resupply run for beer and food... beer being the key item. I'm also pleased to report the tabs at the Class VI Store and the commissary were nearly equal this time, mainly because we don't buy a pricey bottle of scotch every time we make a beer run. No... sometimes we buy a pricey bottle of Drambuie. Like today.

Side note: I wore my New Belgium 1554 tee shirt today. I also went to the Class VI Store before I went to the commissary. So... the sweet young thing (and she WAS all that, and a bag o' chips) who bagged my groceries and wheeled them out to the car noticed the beer in the trunk and sez "How cool! Your tee shirt matches your beer! Is the beer good?" To which I replied... "Honey, do you think I'd buy both the beer AND the tee shirt if it wasn't?"... followed up with a big ol' grin and a wink. I was graced with a dazzling smile in return. Pitter-pat went my heart...

I was semi-amazed at just how GREEN the landscape is after all the rain we've had in the past ten days. It's not green like the green one finds in places like Upstate New Yawk or New England (mainly coz there are no trees)... but it's green enough. Almost pretty, even. Which, of course, means I should have taken the camera with me so I could have snapped a few vistas to share with you, Gentle Reader. I'm thinking I need to put an American Express logo sticky on my camera bag. You know... something that sez "Don't Leave Home Without It."

Finally... this post's title tune:

Lying underneath the stars right next to you
Wondering who you are
And how do you do? (How do you do baby?)
When the clouds roll in across the moon
And the wind howls out your name
and it feels like rain
And it feels like rain

We aint never gonna make that bridge tonight baby
Across the Ponchartrain
and it feels like rain
And it feels like rain

Ah. Former Happy Days.

News You Might Could Use

How To Become a Barfly

Heh. S’true, ya know… from the new-to-me web site Howcast. There’s much more useless shit stuff there you might need to know… like “How to Increase Your Sperm Count,” and “How to Choose a Tattoo That’s Right for You.” On the other hand… there’s some merit in “How to Pick the Right Thong.” Even if you’re male… especially if you’re male (work safe).

―:☺:―

Here’s a WikiTravel page I wish would have existed when The Second Mrs. Pennington and I set out on our New Years Hitchhiking Extravaganza back in 1975-76… Hitchhiking in Japan. I read through it and can vouch for its accuracy, should you ever be in a position to do such a thing. Alternatively you could just read A Road Trip of a Different Sort and live vicariously (Part Deux also, assuming you’ve not "been there and done that")… it’s much cheaper but most definitely not as entertaining as the real thing.

Oh… Other entries in “Off the Beaten Path” are pretty cool, too. One could spend hours and hours and hours here. Don’t ask me how I know.

―:☺:―

Today’s Pics: The Usual Suspects, aka previously unpublished pics from the aforementioned Kyoto trip. TSMP was 19 at the time, I was 30. Yeah… I was a cradle-robber. It was a crime of passion... the fact she went willingly is my only defense.

Heh

Via Blog-Bud Morgan... an old joke, well told. Be advised: there are F-Bombs. But don't let THAT stop you from watching. Unless you're at work, of course.



I love it when women my age talk dirty. In a manner of speaking, of course. More here.

More Blatant Thievery

Stolen from a commenter at Daphne's place... oh-so-real social comment on men being sick (1:25):



Yeah... like that. Well, it used to be like that. These days we suffer alone and in silence when we're ill. Can I get a "poor BABY?"

(I'm not sick, btw. Just sayin'.) (and there's more rilly cool vids at the link [ed: clarification... there are more cool vids at the YouTube site where these came from, NOT at Daphne's place. Sorry for the confusion, if any.]... follow any link titled "Man Stroke Woman" and you will be mightily entertained! Some of 'em are pretty racy but I like that in short films, ya know. YMMV.)

Update: Oh, my. I have a feeling I'm gonna be here for a LOT more than just a while. Does this ring a bell, Gentle Reader? I'll not indulge in self-incrimination, but... (1:25)



Heh. I have a couple o' tee shirts that look an awful lot like this one.

Bleah

Or blech. Or blah. Whatever. I've made the rounds and it seems like a lot of the folks who write my Daily Reads are still celebrating the holidays... and by that I mean they haven't posted much yet this year. Not all of 'em, mind you, just a lot.

I'm finding myself with the same sort of mind-set this morning. I don't wanna talk about The War. I don't wanna talk about The One. I don't wanna talk about The Weather, other than to say "Baby, It's Cold Outside." And maybe hum a few bars from the tune of the same name.

So... here it is nearly noon and no post is on the horizon... what to do? Re-run, that's what. This piece kinda-sorta ties in with one of those jobs I listed a couple of weeks ago in my Work post. See if you can guess which one (Christina!).

Weird Scenes Inside the Gold Mine

Love Street

Angeles City, Philippines. October, 1975 2:20 a.m.

The street below is dead quiet, even though it's the main drag just outside the gate of Clark AB. It’s long past curfew; the bars closed over two hours ago and there are no people in the street, none whatsoever. Curfew. Martial law.

The air is warm and humid, just under 80 degrees. My body has a light sheen of sweat, but it's a clean sweat with a faint odor of hotel-bathroom Ivory. There’s a half-moon overhead, obscured more often than not by fast moving low clouds. It will rain twice before I go back inside.

This is the second-story balcony of the Happy Chicks Bar, a small space with three chairs, a couple of low tables and room for four people, if you push it. The balcony’s enclosed by a low wooden railing that’s about waist-level, there’s a sloping roof overhead. There are lights out here, but they’re not on…moonlight is all we have. The woman and I are the only people on the balcony at this hour.

We’re also buck-naked.

I’m in a papa-san chair, the cotton-cushioned rattan chairs that are everywhere here. The chairs are large enough for close friends to sit comfortably together, and so we are. I’m semi-reclining, legs crossed, feet stretched out and resting on the balcony railing. She’s on her side, facing me, one leg underneath my legs, the other bent and lying over my upper legs. Her head is nestled on my shoulder, her arm lies on my chest. I adjust my position to nuzzle her hair momentarily, then drain the San Miguel I brought out with me. We've been out here for perhaps 20 minutes.

“You want another one beer?”

“Sure”

She disentangles herself, gets up, wraps a towel around her slight body, and disappears through the French doors into the dark hallway. Three minutes later she’s back with a tray holding my beer, a coke, an ashtray, and our smokes. I take my feet off the rail as she lights two cigarettes and hands one to me. I move over, turning on my side as she drops the towel on the side table and climbs back into the chair, placing the ashtray between us. She sits there, cross-legged, smoking, slowly looking me up and down. Every so often she reaches out and lightly, ever-so-lightly, touches my chest, my arm. Our eyes meet when she does that. We smile.

We’re mostly silent; her English isn’t too good, my Pilipino is non-existent. But we communicate, oh my yes, we DO communicate. At least an hour goes by, punctuated by occasional smokes, light touches, and caresses.

“We go back my room?”

I smile and nod.

She puts the empties, the ashtray and our smokes on the tray, re-wraps herself in the towel, picks up the tray with one hand and takes my hand with the other. I follow her back inside and down the hallway to her room.

There’s light in the sky before we sleep.

(not her)

Didja get it, Gentle Reader? (No pun...)