I rest my case
Ever since I returned to Los Angeles, one pet peeve has slowly moved up to the top of the list: when people -- especially people in New York -- say that there are no seasons in L.A. I tell them that there are most certainly seasons in Los Angeles; they just don't reach the painful extremes that identify seasons back east. I still experience showers where the air beyond the hot water spray is bitterly cold. I just don't have to cover every possible inch of skin to leave the house or huddle for hours under blankets until the landlord decides he wants to turn on the heat. I still get to wear my cute sweaters and scarves; I still get to celebrate that first day in sandals after months of cold and rain. The difference is that I don't have to suffer. This Los Angeles winter is especially real. Last night, I tried to go to a show at The Echo and it was canceled because the band couldn't get through the SNOW.
