Of course it's 70 degrees on a Sunday. Why shouldn't it be? Why shouldn't the sky be cloudless except for the whispy high ones? It's only January. And the seats in the sand in front of Perry's are all full so I just find a slab of concrete ledge that looks comfortable to the North and take off my shirt and lay my tired head down. There's an old man blowing on an old trumpet at the other edge, and as I close my eyes his Louis Armstrong strokes come to prominence and that smile creeps to my lips because well, amidst all the stress and anxiety, the uncertainty, the calamity of all things life for me at present, it's still just a beach calamity with the sun tickling my chest and Louis playing soundtrack. The tight coldness knotted up inside melts away like an ice cream cone on a summer's day. Oh, love I have for LA.
