Tennis shot

It's an ill wind that blows (absolutely) no good. Even Santa Anna's breath of fire benefits some thing, somewhere. Just not so much people.

Max served well in the waning light of day. The transformers all in a row along the fence up against court eight at the Westwood Tennis complex kicked on about five o'clock. Traffic groaned and sirens wailed all night long. In the park, many dogs on walks howled in chorus with the passing fire engines. Damn it, an ace. My focus waned. But it was worth it.

It's early January 2007. It's balmy. The breeze is warm but it dries the eyes and stings the lungs just a bit.

And when I get home, the Norseman waits, drinking beer and reading opera magazines. There's one short message from my wife. She's on her way to an HOA meeting. Home owner's association. Poor girl. But she's really good at it. However, it leaves me and the berserker alone to fend for ourselves. I guess I'll go break out the whisky.