It's raining cats and dogs out there, and worse -- it's raining ON cats and dogs out there. Ugh, wet dog stinks like wet dog. Wet cats, I don't know about. Our cats are indoor cats. They live in an oasis. They might bitch and moan to each other about the gulag in which they're confined, but those two morons would last about five seconds in the wilds of suburbia. I can see Nala stuck in a drainpipe, and Simba involved in a check-cashing scheme. Nah, we'll keep these bozos inside. Where it's dry. Except for the bathroom where... (cue Peter Gabriel):
LORD, HERE COMES THE FLOOD!
I think I'll always prefer the bombastic version from his 1977 debut solo album Peter Gabriel (the one with the car) over his collaboration with Roger Fripp on the latter's 1979 collection Exposure, a quieter take (Gabriel's original intention). The music we absorb in our youth overlays at points on our nostalgia like a double exposure.
What was I saying? Oh, the flood, a puddle, really. The vertical river has overwhelmed the gutters, and the water sought its own level, which in our case, is the bathtub. I just threw a towel on it. Problem temporarily solved!
Why didn't Noah think of that?
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