Dispatches from the City of Angels
I'm a writer and humorist living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my novel LOSING CLEMENTINE out March 6 from William Morrow. 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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Favorite Quotes:
"Taint what a horse looks like, it’s what a horse be." - A Hat Full of Sky by Terry Pratchett
"Trying to take it easy after you've finished a manuscript is like trying to take it easy when you have a grease fire on a kitchen stove." - Jan Burke
"Put on your big girl panties, and deal with it." - Mom
"How you do anything is how you do everything."
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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.
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.
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