How's the weather

It's a beautiful, sun-drenched day in Pasadena. The kind that makes you feel ridiculous for ever having huddled under the covers wishing the world would disappear. But I don't wish there were more days like this. A year full of beautiful days can make you complacent and stupid. And so it is that I miss New York.

I won't go into simplistic east coast - west coast comparisons, but there's something to be said about having four distinct seasons. It keeps you on your toes. Here, I'm mostly kept on my back, lethargic from the sun, with a dumb smile on my face. Sorry, I said I wouldn't be simplistic. L.A. weather is pretty complex too - there are streaks of rainy days and it gets surprisingly chilly in the evenings. And, with nothing else to demarcate the seasons, there will always be fashion trends to define our springs and autumns with their traditional color palettes. It becomes almost laughable in the winter when clothing store windows display mannequins wearing woolly scarves and puffy down jackets. "Umm...why?" I'd turn to my boyfriend and ask. "It's just fashion," he'd respond with a shrug. He's long since gotten used to the strangeness of this place.

This morning we made up after a tense spell, the picture-perfect weather appearing to affirm our reconciliation. "It's so gorgeous out here I could just die!" I exclaimed upon stepping outside our apartment. On the way to the local cafe/bakery where we would have brunch, I pondered my paradoxical outburst with amusement. Why is death so often invoked during life-affirming moments? Wouldn't I be less willing to die on a day like this? Not finding any answers, I shook my questions out of mind. With a welcoming "ahhh," I opened up the sunroof and let the sun kiss my face. The car radio was turned off, but music played steadily in my head. I had been reminded of a jazzy tune of which I only knew the first line of lyrics. I hummed it over and over anyway. It's only April and the livin' is already easy...

We found a parking space easily and arrived at the cafe to take our place in the long slow line. We took it as our opportunity to comment shallowly on the customers already seated. There was our requisite pointing of fingers at the coupling of unattractive-white-dude with cute-younger-asian-woman. And then my, "Oh my god, look at the cute baby!" followed by, "Oh my god, what a cute doggy!" I wondered what the other customers would say about us. Probably something reproachful about our gross public displays of affection.

We carried our coffee and pastries outside, marveling at our luck in grabbing the only free table there. The food was delicious this time, I had to concede. You see, this was my boyfriend's favorite local cafe and one that a famous food critic had gushed over, but I had been thoroughly unimpressed. I made a mental note to only order the egg salad or tuna sandwich on future visits. Chocolate souffle's ok; bread pudding: no. To my right a large, amiable-looking dog stood with its tongue hanging out. At the table to my left sat the cutest of babies. I was in heaven.

Our coffee turned cold as my boyfriend and I read the latest edition of LA Weekly together. Pages upon pages of advertisements for plastic surgery, strippers, and oriental massage had us chuckling, "Only in L.A." We said it again as we read the front-page story about Mickey Avalon, Jewish glam-rap Hollywood sensation. But I was less caught up in the content of the story than in the writing. Though my boyfriend and I read at approximately the same pace, I kept stopping to re-read especially well-crafted sentences. "Look at how the writer sets up this passage! It's fucking brilliant!" I'm not often impressed by the literary qualities of magazine writing, but LA Weekly is known for its gonzo-style journalism that lends itself to creative language and a novel-like quality. There was a story in a previous issue of LA Weekly about a violin prodigy turned homeless person in which the author's gifted prose overshadowed the sensational storyline. If only I could write like that, I sighed. And here I was falling in love with another LA Weekly article. When we reached the end of the article, my boyfriend and I looked at each other with the same sad look. We flipped through the rest of the magazine hoping to remain lost in a world of words and, ultimately, to fend off the passing of the day.

Out of articles to read, we spent some time looking at concert listings, choosing which ones we would attend if we had the time. "Shit, Bob Dylan and Paul Simon are playing together this month!" "And for only 30 dollars - that's pretty good." "'Pretty good'?! That's a freaking steal." "Too bad the concert's in New Orleans." "Then let's go to New Orleans!" We went on like this, me being the one who talks exclusively in exclamations. But that, too, came to an end and we found ourselves on the last page of the magazine with no other reason to linger at the cafe. My boyfriend, being the one more grounded in reality, announced, "Time to get to work now..." It was true, we each had work to catch up on, and we had whiled away enough of our Sunday afternoon. Looking around, I suddenly noticed that the babies and dogs were long-gone and the air had turned brisk. I nodded slowly and took one last sip of my cold coffee.