No rain dead lawn

There was a time

The weatherman keeps saying it’s going to rain. Big storm coming! Been saying it for a month now. But it never rains. Heat and humidity hang low over the Lower Hudson Valley, no A/C in the lowly bungalow, just Bungeye Bill from Broken Hill.
The heavy clouds refuse to give up the content of their character. The lawn is brown dead, needs a good soaking. Told the lawncutter don’t come over José because there’s nothing to cut, he say no problemo, Captain Nemo.
The clouds (haha, this is so godam devious) have a Cloud-9-0710 top secret water storage program going on to combat future environmental crikeys, very hushhush, For Gods Eyes Only. But hey listen Mozart climate control is a crocker jarman! except in Dallas Texas, the everything-is-bugger state.
How about dem rats, eh? I bet your ardent admirer doesn’t come over when the rats are eating your shoes. It’s 11 o’clock, do you know where your slippers are?
Maybe something else will occur to me but I’ll make some coffee now with a little brandy to cool it down; moved on from tea after 59 years of drinking tea — it’s a crazy world Hugh://65 Caddy
All this weather stuff reminds me of a song that reminds me of when I was in Topanga Beach 1983, sleeping in the back seat of my ’65 black-over-yellow Cadillac in a parking lot on Pacific Coast Highway, surfers in black wetsuits, two laidoff Detroit auto workers sleeping in their Mustang GT, movie stars stopping by George’s Market on their way home to Malibu—
Lot of pretty girls out there—
No rain dead lawn
What a time, what a time, what a—
Man, I’d love to go back, me and the cat, Harry and Tonto, but with my luck Godawful will call: Hello hello, do you know where your ashes are?

Albert Hammond, 1972 / Video by Joe Daugherty

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