You there! Idle reader! Look here. Pounding away, ten fingers at my rectangular plastic keyboard, tapping, tapping, I try to reach you, entertain you, keep you interested.
It's overcast in Los Angeles today. Fall is moving in.
It's hard to take anything seriously on a Friday afternoon. You feel like your pockets are full of money and you have all the time in the world. My favorite time of the week is between 7 to 11 on a Friday night -- that time when you can still pretend you have the endless green expanses of Saturday and Sunday ahead of you. When everything can be done tomorrow, or the next day.
Planes fly by over my office out of LAX, ascending as they build speed for journeys east. I imagine the passengers pushing the little round metal buttons in their armrests to lean their seats back, shuffling through the magazines they bought at the terminal newstand and stuffed into the pouch of the seatbacks in front of them, looking up from their fresh new paperbacks, still redolent with that pulp paper smell, and gazing out the window at miserable, hazy L.A. on a Friday afternoon, the antlines of traffic nudging toward home, the endless rows of houses broken up by baseball fields and parking lots, the ocean far behind, the mountains to the east, the grimy light of another weekend in paradise.