Some Like It Hot

Here in Los Angeles, we enjoy “summers of a thousand Julys,” to borrow from an old Sarah Vaughan lyric.

So this summery stretch we’re having feels like a July that’s come too soon. Haven’t had a drop of rain since Jan. 1, in what promised to be a very wet winter. Now, as do all things in California, we go from one extreme to the other.

As you know, there’s no such thing as “normal” in California. It is either a land of too much or a land of too little. Add to that an almost embarrassing abundance of Julys.

As you’d expect, the beach was packed on Sunday, as the temps neared 80. Took the wee ones to dip our toes in the surf. Folks were swimming, the vendor carts rattled by. Ice cream in February? We must have it pretty good.

Still, I miss the seasons, or even the relatively subtle changes that pass for seasons out here. The lawn could use a cold shower, and the magnolia leaves are growing dusty again.

February is supposed to be cold toilet seats and vapor trails high in the sky. According to a hiking pal, a former commercial captain, the reason we see more vapor trails in winter is because the atmosphere cools and the jets’ warm condensation leaves more of a mark in the sky. 

I like when these so-called contrails criss-cross, like skeins of yarn. To me, it’s a form of confetti. Like maybe somebody in charge of the cosmos popped the Champagne.

Meanwhile, White Fang is disappointed in this faux February. Like me, she runs hot, and the husky’s fur is flying off in clumps. In the afternoons, when the sun warms her play area, she digs into the cool flower beds, in hopes of a more-refreshing nap.

I took her to the snow recently, and now she’s back in her fry-pan home. Honestly, it might’ve been more humane just to release her into the wilderness. When she got hungry, she could’ve noshed a stray snowmobiler. You put enough ketchup on anything….

I sure can grumble about the slightest slights, can’t I? The other night, a reminder of how good we have it: Suze and I wandered over to Vibrato, the Bel Air music club, to listen to a Van Morrison tribute. Sensational…the food, the music, the gin, everything. Pricey, for sure. But isn’t everything these days? Last week, I spent 14 bucks on a quart of motor oil. Still can’t believe it.

Two nights later, we plunged into the heart of Hollywood for a birthday bash for our pal Brick. After drinks/dinner at the Astor Hotel, the guests all convened in a screening room for a showing of “The Big Sleep,” the noir classic, set in L.A., as most noir classics are.

Here’s the thing about Bogey; he hardly ever smiles. And Lauren Bacall, she hardly ever smiles too. So the two of them, this classic couple, two of the all-time Hollywood greats, are togethering on the couch, insanely hot for each other, yet not smiling. Is that really what romance is all about?

Well, come to think of it: Clark Gable and Carole Lombard? Nary a smile.

Dustin Hoffman and Mrs. Robinson? No smiles, just lust. He wouldn’t even smile at deer-eyed Elaine.

Elaine!!!

Here’s the disconnect: When I’m happy, I smile. I’m from the Midwest, and that’s the way we’ve been trained to express total joy, with a big dopey, golden-retriever kind of grin. 

Out here, apparently, when you’re happy, you just sparkle like the sea, which is what Bogey and Bacall were doing up on the big screen. Couldn’t take our eyes off of them — living, breathing sequins.

See, I’m learning Los Angeles., obviously. It’s taking me longer than I’d like, and like quantum physics, I’ll never fully realize it, since like quantum theories, L.A. love is counter-intuitive.

In conclusion, in mid-winter. L.A. is too warm. In love scenes, L.A. is too cool…like vapor trails, like snow on cedars.

What’s a simple boy like me to think?

Maybe I should just sit back and let the California sun eat my skin, as it’s prone to do with light-skinned lads like me.

On my tombstone: “Eaten alive by L.A. (Hey God, how about another round?)”