Realized Thursday that neither Ian nor myself had left the house in about three or four days. I'm not sure which is more disturbing: that we have been so reclusive or that the thing we found to get us out of the house was to take the recycling to the recycling center.

I think it is L.A.'s fault. The heat here is oppressive this time of year, and even simply sitting still and trying to think is sweat-inducing. It's impossible to tell whether or not the small breeze is a natural phenomenon or just the results of all the cars zooming past.

Of course, it might not just be the weather. L.A. has got to be one of the world's worst-planned cities. If anyone had any thoughts during construction, they were probably only about how to maximize profit; no one seems to have given any thought to quality of life. Especially not environmental quality of life. The expectation seems to be that your existence can be improved if only you spend enough money.

We've started talking about where we might go after L.A.. Hopefully, we'll only be here another year. And then we can go north, to some place greener and wetter, someplace where they don't look at you funny when you want to walk to the market, someplace where it isn't a crime to know your neighbors.