Summertime greetings from LA!

"I'm thinking a simple French pedi this time. Thanks, Hoài Mi."

All of which is wasted on me. Forget sunning by the pool -- give me a frozen tundra and a copy of Cowboy Henk and I'm a happy guy. I find myself picking and choosing my activities based on what destinations have the finest air conditioners. (As an interesting side-note, if you find yourself shopping at Amoeba Music Hollywood and you’re in need of a rush of cold air, go to the classical section, then find where we keep Beethoven. That exact spot is where our powerful A.C. first blasts the room, and it’s heavenly.)

I’m grumpy. Not hella grumpy, mind you, just regular grumpy. I suppose it’s from a week of drinking booze and eating varieties of delicious, weird, snack food that Trader Joe’s is always inventing, getting you hooked on, then discontinuing. (“Dark chocolate covered, rosemary-seasoned aspirin, anyone?”)

Maybe it’s because the weather just became truly warm here in L.A.; the kind of warm that makes you hate wearing shirts and leaves you wanting to bear-hug an electric fan. Most folks here love this weather – in fact, many moved here specifically for it. I am not those people. I like the north aspect to North America. And if it is going to get hot, I want it to smell like baked oak trees and wild grasses – not car exhaust and Beyoncé’s Heat.

No amount of orange juice makes this stuff taste good, FYI.