In San Francisco, there is rain. Sometimes, there are storms. I'm not usually one to gripe about soggy socks and the ruination of a good hair day, but there have been those times when I whine about the first. Good hair days simply don't exist when your choice of do is a scraggly rat's nest.
I mention this because last night, in Atlanta, there was a storm. None of that wimpy San Francisco drizzle which may or may not be particularly grumpy fog. This was lightning like daylight, water coming out the gutters like a volative faucet, and forty-five second thunder claps, triply more intense than the beginning of Black Sabbath's song Black Sabbath on the album Black Sabbath, which, come to think of it, really could have been a bit more creative with all that acid they were doing. I'm unsure if the weather was the outskirts of Ernesto or just a really mean downpour, but Dave, Zach, & I stood outside and marvelled at it for a while, praising the Donald for it's lack of holes, cracked windows, and poorly sealed sunroofs.
Which got me thinking: Ernesto is a great name for a hurricane. It's a hurricane with a mustache and a bad attitude. There's one in Mexico called John right now, and, sorry, but that's pathetic. When we get home, I'm going to apply for this job. The naming hurricane job. I'm sure some weak bureaucrat is in charge now, slave to both the alphabet and his 99 cent Baby Names book he bought as an impulse while buying tomato soup and Wonder Bread. For J, I would have gone with Jasper. Not as sinister as Ernesto, I understand, but it sounds crotchety. Like someone woke it up from its afternoon nap and he's going to let everyone know about it. K could be Kraus, L would be Livingston or maybe Lazarus, and M would have to be Manglor, defined in my personal dictionary of nonsense words as "one who mangles."
But John? Please. John is your neighbor, your doctor, the first guy to die in a slasher movie. He's no hurricane, I'll tell you that.