It being Tessa’s birthday, I wanted to surprise her with a few gifts (some of which she will get this morning, after I’m already at the airport). The main present was a porch swing, something we’ve all coveted since we started renting this house in Venice.
I found one with a high back for comfort, then ordered it to my cousin’s place in Arcadia (one valley over) so I could do a whitewash pickling stain and then varnish the hell out of it. Somewhere along this journey, the instructions got lost, so I had to make it up as I went along, meaning I had about twelve screws and forty washers left unused. OH WELL!
Rushing home, I was presented with this:
That, my friends, is the opening moments of Los Angeles’ worst fire in fifty years. I took movies of the billowing smoke as it wrapped around all of us on Interstate 5, but they don’t do it justice. Even as I write this, the fire is only 50% contained, and just destroyed a quarter of Griffith Park.
On the radio, one of the police chiefs just said that he had spent every morning jogging around the park and that there’s usually hundreds of Sierra Club folks traversing the paths. It’s LA’s “backyard,” so they say. What true Angelenos really know is that this is a huge hit to the gay cruising scene – the easiest way to get laid in Southern California (or so I’m told) used to be the dirt trails criss-crossing the golf course and tennis center. Most of that is gone now, so I have no idea what Plan B might be.
Anyway, back in Heterosexualville, I managed to get the porch swing beast home, then waited for Tessa to go to bed so I could crawl into the ancient attic eaves of the house and find studs to screw. [Insert desperately unfunny joke here.]
After struggles with some nuts and washers [insert another soul-crushingly boring joke here], the porch swing was mounted by 3am, and I collapsed on it, weary and exhausted. I think she was pleased today, though. Happy birthday, honey!
I love my wife – she’s kinda awesome