Raining in L.A.

Whoddathunk? It's raining in L.A. Well, it's not really raining; it's drizzling seriously, though, more than normal. But what is normal in Los Angeles?

As we prepare for the quasi-fantastic remaking of the universe that the Oscars are, we'll see plenty of "important" people pretending they care about the planet by showing up in hybrid cars, or pretending they care about their fellow citizens by complaining about politics, politicians and what they do for a living, or just looking absolutely fabulous in stuff I'll never be able to afford--yes, I'm jealous.

So I'm driving through, all the way to San Pedro, to spend the night in a boat, on the water, in the rain. It'll be a nightmare, full of angry people, careless people, distracted people, on poor roads, in fast cars. But these are dangers I can look for and expect, dangers I can guard against and for whose arrival--when they come--I can at least partially accept responsibility as (if nothing more) a willing participant who entered the arena knowing well the possibility of total catastrophe. Can I say the same of the planet when it fails becuase I smoked, kept a light on too long, drove a few miles too far? Can I say the same of the consequences of those politicians' actions? Where does my responsibility end there?

And what about all those bad movies I pay good money to go see? Am I responsible for them, too?

It is moments like this that make me want to stay home, have crackers and cheese, and drink some riesling.