ahream

Is it possible to have cabin fever in L.A.?

Probably this is some sort of winter hangover I contracted over Christmas. My beach-thin blood came into far too much contact with ice and snow and thermometers that spewed Godless numbers like 23 degrees Fahrenheit. And the wind chills! Oh dear God, the wind chills.

But back in the land of milk, honey and silicone, what do we get? Three days of rain and 55 degrees at the beach. The clouds are clearing, but the temperature stubbornly refuses to rise. And I’m starting to feel a city-wide malaise setting in. Everyone is grumpy and feeling vaguely ripped off.

We Los Angelinos long ago made our deal with the devil. We take smelling salts to recover from writing our rent checks, measure distances according to how much time we’ll spend sitting on the 405 and forgo food to pay for gas. We endure wild fires, earthquakes and mudslides. In exchange, we expect Crayola blue skies and 70 degree weather at all times. ALL TIMES. We just aren’t psychologically prepared to deal with anything else. Britney Spears isn’t crazy or high or under the mind-control powers of Tom Cruise’s Scientology tractor beams, she’s just COLD. She wasn’t refusing to hand over her kids to their father, she was clutching them for warmth.

I can sympathize. Until things improve, I’m locking my door, jacking up the thermostat, listening to the Beach Boys and web surfing for new bikinis until order is restored in the land.

Somebody pass the pina coladas.

ahream Dispatches from the City of Angels I'm a mystery writer living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my short story, "Running Venice," in the new anthology LAndmarked for Murder. Look for it in bookstores and on Amazon.com now. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (3) Most Recent Twitters: Reading Tony Broadbent's book, The Smoke. It's too good. I'm losing sleep. Nocturnal pattern shot to hell. Productivity declining. L.A. Finds: The Denver omelet at Pat's in Topanga is sublime in its simplicity. Exactly what you need and nothing else, much like the restaurant itself snuggled smack in the middle of an old hippie community where the peace signs and tie-dye still reign. Flickr Updates: The second Thursday of every month is the Downtown Art Walk. The galleries stay open late, the restaurants are packed, bands perform on the streets. God, I love L.A. What I'm Reading: The Smoke by Tony Broadbent What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami Want E-Mail Updates? Click here, type your e-mail address into the first field (for public entries) and receive an e-mail note each time a new blog post goes up. (Photo updates, Twitters and "L.A. Finds" features not included. Those you have to swing by and check yourself.) Absolutely, positively no spam. Promise. Other author blogs: Sue Ann Jaffarian Eric Stone Christa Faust Lipstick Chronicles		2008-01-08 1:27 PM I don’t know about hell, but L.A. is freezing over Is it possible to have cabin fever in L.A.? Probably this is some sort of winter hangover I contracted over Christmas. My beach-thin blood came into far too much contact with ice and snow and thermometers that spewed Godless numbers like 23 degrees Fahrenheit. And the wind chills! Oh dear God, the wind chills. But back in the land of milk, honey and silicone, what do we get? Three days of rain and 55 degrees at the beach. The clouds are clearing, but the temperature stubbornly refuses to rise. And I’m starting to feel a city-wide malaise setting in. Everyone is grumpy and feeling vaguely ripped off. We Los Angelinos long ago made our deal with the devil. We take smelling salts to recover from writing our rent checks, measure distances according to how much time we’ll spend sitting on the 405 and forgo food to pay for gas. We endure wild fires, earthquakes and mudslides. In exchange, we expect Crayola blue skies and 70 degree weather at all times. ALL TIMES. We just aren’t psychologically prepared to deal with anything else. Britney Spears isn’t crazy or high or under the mind-control powers of Tom Cruise’s Scientology tractor beams, she’s just COLD. She wasn’t refusing to hand over her kids to their father, she was clutching them for warmth. I can sympathize. Until things improve, I’m locking my door, jacking up the thermostat, listening to the Beach Boys and web surfing for new bikinis until order is restored in the land. Somebody pass the pina coladas. Read/Post Comments (3) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top