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Santa Ana season lasts from October to April, but the winds blow just as hard (and sometimes harder) in September and May.Since the air in the Great Basin starts out hotter in those months, the Santa Anas blow hotter in Los Angeles, and they have a lot to do with those miserably hot late summers.
For a few days now we will see smoke back in the canyons, and hear sirens in the night. To live with the Santa Ana is to accept, consciously or unconsciously, a deeply mechanistic view of human behavior.
I have neither heard nor read that a Santa Ana is due, but I know it, and almost everyone I have seen today knows it too. article in 1963, Eugene Burdick (who'd grown up in LA!
What it means is that tonight a Santa Ana will begin to blow..." "You can't just leave a body on the highway," she said.
"It's immoral." "Once, in a dry season, I wrote in large letters across two pages of a notebook that innocence ends when one is stripped of the delusion that one likes oneself..." The dark side of the American Dream. A startlingly insightful account of the ideological aftermath of 9/11.
The mythology around the Santa Ana winds is potent enough that "Santa Ana winds in popular culture" has its own robust Wikipedia page, and they appear everywhere from Steely Dan's "Babylon Sisters" to Bret Easton Ellis's 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.
) wondered for several pages how on earth California had recently passed New York to become the most populous state in the country.
In 2016, his scene setting reads like a parody: One summer day when a "Santa Ana" wind swept tons of desert dust aloft to combine with the smog to give Los Angeles a brown, hazy atmosphere, I visited Muscle Beach at Santa Monica.
There is something uneasy in the Los Angeles air this afternoon, some unnatural stillness, some tension.
What it means is that tonight a Santa Ana will begin to blow, a hot wind from the northeast whining down through the Cajon and San Gorgonio Passes, blowing up sandstorms out along Route 66, drying the hills and the nerves to flash point. I rekindle a waning argument with the telephone company, then cut my losses and lie down, given over to whatever it is in the air.