When I emerged from my bedroom this morning, I was not greeted by the usual glare of the morning sun. Instead, the patio had the subdued lighting of a good French restaurant. Not quite Maxim's. Maybe La Tante Claire.
The clouds were not the usual too-humid-to-be-weather stratus clouds that tend to just hang around most of the summer -- capturing humidity and offering no promise of rain, like one of those terrariums from the 80s. This morning's clouds had the texture of badly-applied stucco. The dark patches promised the possibility of rain.
Being a man of my times (and that may be the last you will hear that phrase applied to me), I checked one of the handy weather apps on my telephone.
Sure enough. There was a possibility of rain in the afternoon. 40%. Around 5.
That number was not encouraging. I do not know what logarithms the app relies upon, but that 40% figure shows up far more often than does the predicted rain around here. It seems to be the default for any day clouds show up -- or don't. But the app has accu in its title, so someone must know what they are doing.
And sure enough. There was rain just around 5. Well, not rain. My blogger pal Felipe would probably say something like there was not enough to wet his whistle. On the Oregon coast, we would call it a drizzle.
Some of my readers claim water dropping from the sky here is not properly called "rain" unless our sewer system, does a passable impression of Mount Etna.
That is wrong. If I stand in my patio and my head gets wet, that is rain.
If this weather incident had been a play, the reviews would remark on its slow pacing. Drizzle on and off through the evening. A few thunderclaps accompanied by indifferent lightning. Three brief power outages.
It may not have been Gone with the Wind, but it will have to do for now. We still need a couple of those Etna spectaculars to green up our browning hills.
Speaking of the weather, I have been under it for a few days. That explains my absence since last Friday.
Whenever I slink off like this, I always appreciate the number of you who write to see if my well-crafted obituary will be published somewhere public. Thank you.
That event will have to wait, though. I simply have one of those digestive track maladies that lay a lot of my neighbors low this time of year.
This one was a bit more intense. A full-bore Mexidrama in the dark.
On Friday night, the full cast appeared. Vomiting. Diarrhea. Headache. Chills. Fever. Accompanied with that odd form of fever-induced mania that causes my mind to invent endless strings of numbers in some sort of game whose rules are that one mistake will blast my brains all over the bedroom.
The last time I had those particular symptoms was the onset of my cellulitis. I woke up on Saturday morning certain that one of my legs would be bright red. Neither one was. One bullet dodged. But I had something.
The rest of the symptoms, save one, were gone as well. One cast member, though, insisted on sticking around with a diarrheic soliloquy riffing off of "to be or not to be." Apparently, it was going to be -- for a long time.
When it had not subsided by Monday morning, I surrendered and went to the doctor. There are usually three causes for these problems here: 1) a virus, 2) bacteria, or 3) parasites.
My lab results were a bit mixed. But the most likely culprit was parasites. My doctor was a little surprised because the vast majority of her patients recently (she says that during the past two weeks, with the heat increase, her office has been filled with patients complaining of digestive problems) have bacteria infections. Usually contracted through food.
Because parasites are the most likely cause of my problem, she put me on a three-day medication regime. If that does not work, we will probably move on to something to deal with bacteria.
I know that parasites are a problem here. That is why I take an anti-parasite tablet on 1 January and 1 July each year. For some reason, I missed my January dose. I may be paying the price for that now.
While I have been recovering, I am indulging in what some people would call a guilty pleasure. For me, it feels more like penance.
I collect movie DVDs. Streaming is probably going to put an end to that passion. But I still buy what seems to me to be interesting movies. Mostly old movies.
I have never been a fan of James Bond films. I watched the first four when I was in high school. Dr. No. From Russia with Love. Goldfinger. Thunderball. Like most of my friends, Goldfinger was my favorite.
Then the series seemed to go nuts. I saw Moonraker with some law school friends in The Dalles. I could not get out of the theater fast enough. And that was that until my English friends Julian and Andrea Huxham got me interested in the Daniel Craig versions.
To stretch out a long story, I bought the full James Bond collection from Amazon. It arrived along with my diarrhea. I am now up to Tomorrow Never Dies. In a real sense, it feels like the Bond films never die. And that is not a compliment.
I suspect the movies were far more interesting when they were released every two or three years. Watching them from my sick chair simply magnifies their tedium.
Of course, I could just stop. But I am not really in a mood to re-watch excellent movies like Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Titus, when my attention-deprived mind is in no mood to analyze anything.
So, there you have it. Two plays -- one to share my dollop of rain and the other to tell you where I have been -- along with a movie at home.
I guess that is not really a bad way to end the day.
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