Fall in Northern CA

​Introducing the new seasons of Northern California: 
 
Dry Winter, Early Summer, Hot Summer and my least favorite season of the year, Fire. Most of you know it as good ol’ fashioned fall; a time when the leaves turn to a golden rust and drop from the trees and only to be raked for fear of the soggy droppings clogging up the storm drains. The leaves in Northern CA turn as well; to a crackling, dry consistency of an overcooked potato chip, shattering at the slightest touch. The sky is never the cold, dark of an impending rain shower but mostly from a lack of visible sun. We do have an ever-present ash, gently falling, collecting in the tops of our cars, dusting the streets and sidewalks our neighborhoods and collecting in the deep recesses of our lungs. Doesn’t it just make you just want to go outside and make a snow angel? This is our 3rd fire for us. Like hurricanes, the scientists and fire fighters have names for the hellish infernos now. This one closest to us is called, “Not another fucking fire,” and is two percent contained.  
 
In short, life is pretty much as it was presented in the movie, Interstellar. All that is missing is the corn. I tell you this not for your sympathy but to gently nudge you toward the conclusion that things are changing. The earth has become irate, consistently probed, choked, raped and pillaged. Her jungles have been cleared, her forests “managed,” her water exploited, her crust baked, a growing number of native species made extinct. And still there are people who say that this is all normal, that the earth will remarkably bounce back. Well, maybe the earth will, in a million years or so. Call me cynical, but I don’t think we will. Maybe that is a good thing. Lately, as a species, we seem pretty anxious to prove that we’re not worthy to be stewards of something that was once so wonderful. Civilization is hurtling toward the world of Soylent Green, Interstellar and Running Man and we choose to ignore it in favor of the conspiracy rambling of a group of called Q. Jesus, we deserve what we get. 
 
There are, no doubt, a few of you that believe, well why you don’t you just stop living there. You can always move. And, if we can find someone to buy a house teetering on the precipice overlooking hell itself, we will. If we do move, it will most likely buy us a year or two. I am of the firm belief, and I am sure a few scientists will back me up on this, that soon the seasons all over the world will be changing. It doesn’t take Randy Quaid and the director of Independence Day to convince me of that. I see it every day. It seems Mother Nature is calling out to us, “You can run, but you can’t hide, mother-earth fuckers.” Maybe that is why most of my fellow citizens prefer to bury their heads in the sand. The view is better down there.

Deep breath!  
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Okay, and now for a tiny bit of good news. Another great review of Son of Ravage from the legendary comic book and pulp fiction writer, Ron Fortier. It will not put out any fires but is certainly appreciated.  Thanks, Ron!

Pulp Fiction Review of Son of Ravage

And, BTW, message recieved. It’s hangar, not hanger.