According to Mel Gibson, it rained on Jesus, too.

I'm wearing a groove into the 5 and 405. I haven't been working on it as much these past few months, but every now and then, I get back to it. I had another quickie trip to San Diego yesterday and drove up this morning, straight to the office. Something I haven't had to do in ages. It brought back memories of doing it for the very first time. A trip that started with a goodbye. A week that ended with a good cry. A move that made little difference. A season in my life that was costly and curdled. A season far too lengthy to be called a season. Unless you divide your life into quarters. In which case, it was not nearly a season at all.

I spare myself a lot of the pondering that used to act as ready pastime. I no longer have a go to game to play when I am bored and must sit still and be quiet. When I must look attentive and engaged. I have no excuse.

I'm doing stand-up tonight and photographing and possibly appearing in a friend's film tomorrow and whatever happens Saturday night and going to San Diego again on Sunday.

I like the rain. It reminds me of every other day it rained. And it unearths greedy hopes of curling up in the safe dry indoors. There is something so very civilized about being able to close a door and lock it.

I miss the naivete in you that made it possible for you to say those things to me. I miss the naivete in me that made it possible for me to clutch them so tightly. They meant everything.