narration of a rainy night

Its been a strange night. Hunter Thompson was slightly prophetic and the folks outside can't film because of the rain. He said in '86 that the Patriots wouldn't make the playoffs for another 20 years. Well they did, but it took 'em 15 years to win the Super Bowl. The rain's coming down pretty hard now. It was just drizzling when they set up. It's the fire pit in my back yard that attracted them. Like moths to a flame. Some of them look like witches, in black cloaks and deathly white makeup. But they can't shoot in the rain. The scene doesn't call for it. Damn fools made me turn off the music for nothing. I don't mind in particular, but I'm pissed about the soda situation. If I want more I'll have to walk to 7-11 in the rain. It's quiet now, without the music. Just the whirr of my aging window fan and the pitter patter of the rain outside. Every once in a while they shout something at each other. I can't make out the words.

Apparently they started again while I was getting another soda. But they've stopped now. The rain picked up while I was paying. This rain is really putting a damper on the filming. They're packing up. Before they were just waiting out the heavy bits and filming in between. It doesn't look like it'll let up any time soon. But now I can play the music. I've settled on the Flaming Lips pink robots album.

I just found out I have working Christmas lights on my front porch.