I am typing this as the acrid smell of burning brush seeps up through my doorsill. Out my window the sky looks like steamed piss. The fires are back and homes are going up in flames. It’s those Santa Ana winds. Chandler put it this way:
There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands’ necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.
Yeah, the dude could write. Fires, earthquakes, hellacious traffic. And now the Lakers have lost. I wonder why any of us live in this place. [Well, you can get some good sushi.-ed. Yeah, that you can. And some aces up Korean bbq at places like Park’s. But is worth it? Now that’s the question.]