Irene my ass.

Smoking a cigarette under the porch of the house I grew up visiting during the summers. There was company in the bushes, totally cloaked by the absolute darkness and lights suspended themselves in the sky in numbers I haven't seen since Africa.

The family and the girlfriend have spent the weekend in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, hiking in the looming prospect of well-publicized Hurricane Irene- by 11am we were on the ledges of a great mount and by 2 we were washing the hikers sweat off our bodies in the pools of the waterfall on Sullivan St.

There is an apparent cycle in effect this weekend as the days when I have any bearing on what is going on, they are numbered. The last time I was in the house on Mill Brook St. I was young, I was friends with Katy and I held my breath when passing a cigarette smoker on the side of the road. This was 8 years ago, the time before that I was 11, before that I was 'wee'. Now, I'm a beer drinking cigarette smoker heading to college in four days. The next four years of my life start on thursday and I don't even know what that means. With a glass of wine and my therapeutic rain, I can't even be nervous, my mind only on how bad I need a smoke.

Hurricane Irene, my ass. I have other things to worry about and I dig the rain.