And The Clocks Were Striking Thirteen (_redpanda_) wrote in metaquotes,
And The Clocks Were Striking Thirteen
_redpanda_
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My vacation started out in flames of the Southern California brush fire that marched itself around Santa Clarita two weeks ago. One report, and I'm not sure if is the case or not, said that the fire had been started by an electrocuted red-tailed hawk that had fallen to the ground while still smouldering. All I knew at the time was that the 5 near thE 14 was on fire and that traffic was terminally screwed because of it. I didn't learn until the next day that it was caused by the hawk and that news madE my day in a way; every news agency in the west had been calling it arson just 24 hours prior. When they (the ubiquitious entity known as "The Media") learned that it wasn't arson suddenly there was no story and things that I really wanted to know about the story weren't reported...I'm sure that weren't even asked by reporters on the scene.

After dropping a friend off at the Burbank airport I turned the car toward Vegas and began the several-hour trip of frighteningly familiar deja vu. I've been out that way before, driving, once or two. The most recent time was a couple of years ago while I helped my mom move from California to Colorado, the very place where I was headed to with a load of kids who, while I knew they were excited to be going, didn't seem to be much into showing anything past cold indifference to the whole affair. Everything about the drive to Vegas felt moderately creepy at first, I knew that I'd been that way before but was it a clairvoyant dream -- an extremely creepy to be sure -- or something more ordinary that that. Just about the time I hit Barstow it came to me: I'd been this way twice before, once while unconscious in the back of a van and once while moving my mom. I only recall the trip out with my mom in any great detail and it wasn't a fond memory for me. Not that driving to Colorado with my mom was not a bad thing but I was suffering from a ruptured hemroid; bleeding from the ass would not have been on my list of things to make the move happy and memorable. So the drive out through Barstow dredged up a fairly uncomfortable feeling for me.

What a way to start the vacation: massive wildfires and memories of bleeding from my ass.

-- realityfox (post here, I love the way he expresses himself...)
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