Monday, May 30, 2005


June gloom descended on LA in late May, filling the sky with a melancholy inducing marine layer reminding all of us who emmigrated from the east and midwest that despite smog, traffic, poseurs, cell phone abusers and the criminally oblivious, it could be worse; six months or more worse of the kind of weather which dries up seratonin uptake and fills liquor glasses to overflow.

When the fog settles in like an uninvited relative on extended vacation, I wake up every morning feeling as if the "wee folk" had stole in the middle of the night and stuffed tepid oatmeal up my sinuses. The nerve endings in my head go deader than Karl Rove's conscience and even two large cups of high test coffee fail to compeletely burn off the miasma that has reduced my brain voltage to the level of a AA battery.

The glad truth is that after 10 years in California, I've become a Vitamin D junkie: I crave it, need it, got to have it or I start to experience withdrawls. Like a coke head without a fix, I begin to look everywhere for relief. Instead of crawling on the rug with a magnifying glass in search of the lost powder that somehow didn't make it up my nose, I start to look to the firmament for any sign of burn off, a break in the clouds or enough radiation to cast even a feeble shadow.

It's Monday morning and le soleil is set on high. A blue sky is providing a clear path for it's arc westward and even a cell phone screamer in full eurotrash regalia can't wipe the smile from my face.

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