We’re now solidly in the midst of what is arguably the worst time of year in the fair City of Roses.

Yes, it’s “the hot season,” when daytime temperatures sit patiently between 80-F and 95-F, when the air doesn’t move enough to mean anything, and when the room I now inhabit receives all kinds of direct sunlight since it faces almost due south.

Bleah. I hate hot weather. A large part of the reason I love this town so much is that we really only get a few short months of heat before returning to the nice gray drizzly weather I’m so much more comfortable with.

You can’t do anything in this heat. You don’t want to read, you don’t want to do chores, you don’t want to cuddle up with somebody, you just want to find some ice cream and wait for midnight when the air outside has cooled down some.

Bleah, I say.