Excerpt from Inherent Vice

[Robin Landseadel]

Just posted at the L.A. Times:

	Sunrise was on the way, the bars were just closed or closing,
	out in front of Wavos everybody was either at the tables along
	the sidewalk, sleeping with their heads on Health Waffles or in
	bowls of vegetarian chili, or being sick in the street, causing
	small-motorcycle traffic to skid in the vomit and so forth. It was
	late winter in Gordita, though for sure not the usual weather.
	You heard people muttering to the effect that last summer the
	beach didn't have summer till August, and now there probably
	wouldn't be any winter till spring. Santa Anas had been blowing
	all the smog out of downtown L.A., funneling between the
	Hollywood and Puente Hills on westward through Gordita
	Beach and out to sea, and this had been going on for what
	seemed like weeks now. Offshore winds had been too strong to
	be doing the surf much good, but surfers found themselves
	getting up early anyway to watch the dawn weirdness, which
	seemed like a visible counterpart to the feeling in everybody's
	skin of desert winds and heat and relentlessness, with the
	exhaust from millions of motor vehicles mixing with microfine
	Mojave sand to refract the light toward the bloody end of the
	spectrum, everything dim, lurid and biblical, sailor-take-warning
	skies. The state liquor stamps over the tops of tequila bottles in
	the stores were coming unstuck, is how dry the air was. Liquor-
	store owners could be filling those bottles with anything
	anymore. Jets were taking off the wrong way from the airport, 	
	the engine sounds were not passing across the sky where they
	should have, so everybody's dreams got disarranged, when
	people could get to sleep at all. In the little apartment
	complexes the wind entered narrowing to whistle through the
	stairwells and ramps and catwalks, and the leaves of the palm
	trees outside rattled together with a liquid sound, so that from
	inside, in the darkened rooms, in louvered light, it sounded like
	a rainstorm, the wind raging in the concrete geometry, the
	palms beating together like the rush of a tropical downpour,
	enough to get you to open the door and look outside, and of
	course there'd only be the same hot cloudless depth of day, no
	rain in sight.

http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/news/la-ca-pynchon-sidebar2-2009aug02,0,713040.story