And the freeways sucked. But that goes without saying.

Los Angeles was in a mood last night. Something angry and weird was crackling through the air. As I crawled along Hollywood Boulevard, choke-clogged with cruisers and travelers gawking for a parking space, I could sense something bottled up, something dangerous. Wind flushed through in quick whips, and far off to the South orange lightning forked down. And none of it took any of the edge off the heat – 90’s at the beach (so full the cops closed the main parking lot and waved people away), 100’s inland, 115 in the Valley.

Out in front of the gelato shop which sells pure contentment by cup or cone, two cops interrogated a young man, and didn’t like his answers. They shoved him into a wall and cuffed him – I thought they took extra care to see that his head hit the wall along with the rest of him. Tourists were videotaping.

Over in the courtyard of the Chinese, you usually see only one of each costumed character around to pose for pictures. Professional courtesy. But last night, two Michael Jackson-s occupied the same ground, and neither would cede. A feverish dance-off ensued.

Emergency vehicles raced by every few minutes.