Awash

A ludicrous time was had by all. Never was so much written and broadcast about a matter of so little consequence. Or rather, the trial of Michael Jackson was of great consequence to he and his fans, not a large group. And to the various other people involved in the defence and prosecution cases. Oh yes, then there was the media. We made it of great consequence because it filled time in our newspapers, and on the airwaves. In the end, Jackson's acquital was a clean ending to a dirty affair that we should really not have taken so seriously.

Ah, but what should intrude late Tuesday night as relieved blatherers poured colourful liquids down their throats at the excellent Chef Rick's restaurant in suburban Santa Maria. A tsunami warning, that's what. Debate raged over whether or not we should shift our expense account backsides from eatery to uplink and so inform a waiting world that California could be the next Aceh. Yes, said one, the first tsunami warning since the Boxing Day tragedy in Asia is worth our time. No, chorused many others, unwilling to abandon what we thought was hard-earned wine. In the end, it was decided that only wet feet would dislodge us from the groaning board. That night, the space between the toes of hacks' remained dry and decidedly not brackish.

I admit to regretting early rants about how moved I'd been by human suffering in South and South East Asia and wondering if some gods somewhere hadn't heeded by empty plea. Thank you, thank you, thank you.