It's Hot, Widespread Panic HOT

This morning I took our dog Lola to the Asbury Park dog beach, and a good time was had by all—quadrupeds and hominids alike—but it was fucking HOT, and it was only 7:30 AM . . . it was heinously, hellishly hot and humid, unprecedentedly oppressive, stoically still . . . or that's how James Ellroy's sleazoid shakedown artist Freddy Otash would describe it—I just finished Widespread Panic, which is not exactly a beach read, but while we're on vacation, I'm going to try to power through Ellroy's second L.A. Quartet—A.K.A. the Freddy Otash Quartet . . . here's how Ellroy describes Otash in an L.A.P.D. confidential memorandum in The Enchanters: "Mr. Otash . . . a freelance extortionist, scandal-rag dirt digger, strongarm goon, perpetrator of divorce shakedowns, doper of racehorses, informant for Chief William H. Parker, procurer and dope conduit for President John F. Kennedy" and in Widespread Panic Otash blackmails, digs dirt, strongarms, and leverages such stars as James Dean, Rock Hudson, Natalie Wood, and Elizabeth Taylor—I could barely follow his drunken, dexedrine-fueled machinations—but that's how it is with Ellroy, you just groove on the vibe and pick up what you can . . . anyway, I'm sure I'll get some reading done today as I'm going to remain in the AC for a while; I biked down to the beach and took a swim after my journey to the dog beach, and the water is sublime, but the beach itself is baking; my wife was down there in a beach yoga class with a bunch of other fit, good-looking women, but watching them just made me feel sad and out-of-shape . . . there's no way I could survive an hour of gyrating like that on the hot sand, especially while staring at the lovely clear blue ocean-- I'd last ten minutes and then get up and jump in the water.