Not All Those Who Wander

If the crackling air isn’t enough of a clue, the free-range egg whites cooking on the sidewalk ought to be. Summer has arrived in Los Angeles.

What does that mean, exactly? For those of you in far flung exotic lands, let me describe the wave, the tsunami that crashes over this city.

They’re called “tourists” in polite society. The rest of us add adjectives, or in my case adverbs, for emphasis. They’re easy to spot; even nowadays many will be sunburned to a glowing magenta, accented by bathing suit shaped stripes. In July they marvel at our wonders. Everything is just so darned interesting and look over there isn’t that the guy from that commercial standing next to the palm tree? Is that a real palm tree? Omg (sic)! In fact, they’ll speak mostly in exclamation points. By the way, isn’t it legal to turn right on a red light just about everywhere? Not where they come from.

But if history holds, by August they’ll be complaining. They’ll stop admiring local fashion and start jeering at the Californian weirdo’s. The celebrities they spot won’t be “big” enough. The food will be overpriced (true) and strange (not). Then Labor Day will come and poof! Like magic, they’ll all go home.

Please don’t let this deter you from visiting our ersatz semi-tropical Metropolis before then. If the sights bore you, you can always watch the tourists. Somebody ought to.