It was sprinkling when I left the house yesterday evening to have dinner with friends. For about thiry minutes before, there had been the sounds of thunder and a sporadic splatter of rain against the windows. I felt rushed since I was leaving late, but I hoped to make up the time on the Interstate.

Within minutes, I was zooming north along the Interstate in a light shower. In took me another few moments to remember that the road was undergoing some serios construction with concrete barricades funeling the traffic for miles. Shortly after that the rain became more intense, so I slowed to a safer pace. But very quickly the rain became monsoon-like dousing the cars with a constant barrage of water. Visibility was cut to no more than 20 or 30 feet. And I could tell that the pavement was inches deep with rain. And I had only the vaguest notion of who or what was in the next lane; it could have been a sports car or a garbage truck.

The very sensible idea of pulling over sprang to mind. But was immediately squashed by the fact that there was no place to pull over to. The barricades and construction had more or less eliminated the shoulders. So for about ten minutes I had no recourse but to creep along almost blindly. Only by noticing the glare of brake lights in the other lane did I realize I was at my exit. Strangely enough within seconds, the rain dissipated.

It didn't take long to find the street I needed. But I had more trouble locating the house, and swung into three or four drives before find the right one. It's a wonderful street with houses dating from the 30s and 40s that have been turned into shops and apartments. And amazingly, there was even a sidewalk on both sides of the street. Ths house I wanted contained a beauty salon at the back and two apartments at the front. Along the walk and on the porch, there was a small ecosystem of plants including a tall vine in a pot sitting in the rain with teacup-size pink flowers. Among the Windchimes and hanging items was a large, metal fish that almost appeared to be floating in the rain.

The apartment was small with one of the strangest floor designs I've seen. A living slash bedroom at the front, then a bath, next a kitchen. But to get to the kitchen, you don't go BY the bath, you have to go THROUGH it.

Since I was late and very hungry, we quickly headed off to the new Mexican restaurant back in the direction of the Interstate. Alas my food was far spicier than I'd anticipated, so I ate sparingly. But the wonderful conversation made up for it. My friends had just watched "The Talented Mr. Ripley" that afternoon and had also rented "Eyes Wide Shut." So we had a divergent discussion of Kubrick. And Matt Damon and Jude Law and Nicholas Cage and Jack Davenport. And QAF. I think I enjoyed not having to worry about a topic or be concerned about keeping the conversation afloat.

On the way home, the rain was more akin to a steady drizzle. But the windows constantly fogged. I tried open windows, closed windows. AC on, AC off. Defrost on, defrost off. Using the AC worked best but just about froze me.

Once home, I caught the last part of a concert on MTV2. (The channel that ACTUALLY plays music as opposed to MTV1 which thrives on Carson Daly, "Real World" and other idiotic pursuits. To prove my point, I'm going to stop and switch the remote to MTV1. Yeppppppp! "WWF Sunday Night Heat.") The concert featured Radiohead and must have been taped recently for it contained music from "Kid A" and "Amnesiac." But it nay not be that recent since the music was done for both CDs at roughly the same time, but the latter one has only recently been released.

Thom Yorke's concert presence is that of the determined artist. The music is first. No stage patter. No playing to the audience. I can't even think of a recognition of the audience except for a "Thank you." Thom moves not so much in time with the music as he appears to be possesed by it. As if he is a marionette controlled by acoustic forces. His kinetic jerks fascinate me. There is something about him that I find so erotic.

PAX!