Batten Down and Hang Tight

For my friends and family today in Southern California, a little Raymond Chandler, from his book "Red Wind", seems appropriate:

There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.

And instinctively and unconsciously, you sniff the air for that dreaded smell . . . of smoke.

The Santa Anas portend bad things, my friends.  People are driven to the point where common sense and reason may be held in abeyance just long enough - just those few seconds - for them to make decisions they will rue for a long time.  Physically, with the extreme drop in humidity (and you cannot get any lower than zero), it can feel as though all moisture has left your sinus cavity and your eyes.  Don't start licking your lips, they will become chapped within minutes.  Humidifiers and extra -hold hair spray, and pray to St. Michael the Archangel for protection from high winds.