There just isn't enough bagged salad in the world. As though someone hoovered up all the washed and dusted greens and built a stately pleasure dome out of them somewhere in central Vermont, then invited all of her cheese-stuffed olive-eating hipster twit friends up for a lost weekend full of munching cabbage, vegetarian snuff films, and ketamine shooters. You don't want to clean up after that party, believe me.However, California is properly ablaze, so that much and no more is right with the universe. If there's a late August day where L.A. isn't thrust into the bowels of hell as a prelude to the long muddy slide into the yellow-foamed sea, I don't want to be awake for it. I'll huddle in sheets in the dark and peer through the blinds at the smoking mountains and hope that my robot knows where the vermouth is.
The tradeoff: fabulous sunsets. Better than the ones from '83 to '86 after Krakatoa blew its top, taking the diamond mine and two-thirds of the island with it.
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