I trust you’ve been in good hands as I took a week off to run around the hottest bits of California, first to visit my parents on the edge of the scorched plains of the vast Central Valley then off for some leisurely pool time in sunny Palm Springs, where opening the door of a parked car feels rather like setting off a nuclear blast. I’m willing to cut the locals a little slack due to the extreme conditions, but I have to say, as far as summertime fashion goes, the Californians ain’t bringin’ it. Particularly guilty are the Palm Springs Gays, who have a long history of dressing for the hotter climes and should know how to do it better. I took Scott and his colorfully turned-out mum Stacie to the popular Happy Hour at Azul on Palm Canyon and felt like we were surrounded by a bunch of thirsty lizards wearing cheap shirts and ugly shoes. It was slightly better at upscale Tropicale the next day, but I still expect more. Palm Springs Gays, consider this your warning.
While I was out there, The Olympics happened. Or, at least, they started to happen. The Opening Ceremonies demonstrated how, in the slowest transition in theatre history, the Agrarian Age gave way to the Industrial Age, then a bunch of Mary Poppinses chased off a giant Voldemort puppet before a colossal creepy baby appeared, I think, in a crib. But that might have been the margaritas talking.