The nondescript arrival of autumn brought not idyllic setting but the much dreaded Indian summer. The stifling dry heat during day time so irritable to my nerves and senses that I can't concentrate on reading, and whatever was read was consumed on facile understanding. As I await for the advent of the cooler evening air to chase away the insufferable, there on my iBook screen appeared felicitously a banner for an advertisement for midweek getaway to Iceland. This truly aroused the little bourgeois itch inside of me, to emancipate from the world of sameness that I now reside, even if it mean to upset my financial stability in the short term.

My best chance of getting away is the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday that is to afford me four days off from work, by which an additional sick-day or two I would be able to pull this little scheme off. Yet as I envelope myself in resplendent gleefulness, there was something amiss: Everything is sounding too well; a hitch must be hiding in some dark, damp mildew corner, only to strike me at moment of most unsusceptibility. To attest to such inhibition that I hung around my neck as an aphorism, I began my search for airfare and lodging in Reykjavik, and surprisingly the results were most agreeable. Just as my planned trip begun to take shape in the form of actuality, the deity somewhere up in the cloud threw down the thunderbolt, graying my newfound optimism, and issued the edict that my parole had been denied, that I ought to be further imprisoned in suburban hinterland. The trip cannot be realized because, of all things, the Thanksgiving holiday.

What had originally been the initiative of the trip turns out to be in itself the slaughterer of hope. The leaving for Reykjavik requires takeoff at either New York's JFK airport or Boston, thus requiring my buying a domestic air ticket to the east coast. Normally a trip across the spacious nation is priced at around $200 to $250, plus all that weighty taxes going to the Homeland Security. But at such given time as the Thanksgiving, every single seat on the airplane will succumb to hyper inflation and priced over $500, before adding taxes (and I am only speaking about the budget airlines). The extra markup ruined entirely of my carefully planned expenditure and rendering it too expensive for the relative short stay in Iceland. As you can guess it, gloom can always find a way to attach on to my shoulder.

EXTRA! MAJOR PROGRESS MADE IN DOMINGUEZ

By Michelin L. W. Y. in Los Angeles

After a day’s chaos in which the Dominguez Golf Driving Range was overrun by white bouncing rabbits, many witnesses saw major changes today as white golf balls flew straighter and farther, injecting new confidence into the shattered public trust.

Officials estimated the rate of errant hit golf balls were down at least 50%, a major improvement compare to just a day ago, where errant golf balls were estimated at about 89% of all golf balls hit. In one instance a golf ball was hit beyond the 170 yard line, breaking all previous records, while maintaining a straight course.

“I couldn’t believe my eye, as the ball traveled in such uncompromising fashion,” bellowed one witness, requesting anonymity. “It was a near-perfect swing, chasing away yesterday’s large number of rabbits.”

In an unofficial report leaked just hours ago, officials cited the average distance of well hit balls was around 120 yards to 160 yards. The report also gave few possible reasons for the sudden improvement, such as better concentration and relaxed handgrip.

“We don’t want to jump to conclusion at this early stage, but from what we saw the rear end is positioned at a right angle, whereby the force of the swing was able to be shifted smoothly from the right foot to the left,” said an official who is close to the workings of the report, on condition of anonymity, for fear of retribution for the leak. “It will be very interesting to see the development over the next few weeks. We expect further improvement as the swing is becoming more natural.”

The golfer known as Michelin, no relation to the author of this article, was unavailable for comment.

In order to fill the immense void of my life I feel there is a need to acquire additional quotidian things to do besides my liking to literature and blogging. After all, a Saturday such as today cannot be taken up entirely with reading Thomas Mann and blogging about trifles of the day. I suppose one could, but hobbies that are of sedentary nature, when engaged beyond the reasonable limit, can stifle one's mental and physical health. In another word, I didn't want to become a total nerd, so that's why I have taken up the sport of golf.

With the help from my landlady and landlord and my colleagues I was able to garner eclectically used irons and drivers and advices on how to swing at the little white ball. Armed with my used clubs and clad in my new golf glove and Lacoste polo shirt (this gave me an excuse to shop), I strode bravely upon the hill of Dominguez Golf Driving Range in the City of Carson. The cost was $10 for 125 golf balls dispensed automatically as shown in the picture. Before embarking on such adventure, my twisted notion of golf is that of high-brow and exclusive -- the description is more fitting in Taiwan and other Asian countries. But here I found people of all background and age practising under the slightly murky sky, with patches of blue just barely visible from time to time. Laity such as I wouldn't feel intimidated.

Thankfully the weather is bearable, as wind breezes through occasionally to relieve the afternoon heat. I purposely chose the farthest open range down the corridor, careful so as not to show my unfamiliarity, I found the machine's opening slot to insert the $10 card, and after a faint ruffling sound a white golf ball was hoisted from underneath the fake grass, ready to be at my service. Without any ceremony I put on my golf glove and positioned myself to tee off. "Protrude your butt; interlock your left index finger and your right pinky; straighten your back; eyes on the ball", as I recall one by one the dispensed advice I got from various sources, set my mind ready; and with a not-so-reassuring raise of my iron, in one relatively fluid movement the iron-in-motion met the little white ball, and, indeed of sailing through the murky sky and defying gravity, it simply traveled on land and bounced thereabout, as if dancing and prancing like a rabbit on a gleeful spring day. Thus my frustration and misery grew. One after another the little white ball behaved like rabbit and refused to take off despite my hearty wish.

It wasn't till ball #57 then I saw my first successful launch. Of this swing I clearly recall, for I felt no constrained force on my hand when I hit, the fat part of the iron met the ball perfectly, the ball exploded, surging in air, and landed in one elegant and graceful motion on the pitted turf, the distance I judged to be around 90 yard. Pure joy. Period.

Of course, one great swing does not guarantee future success. Again, one after another the ball bounced off or flew obliquely, not to be budged into traveling straight. Periodically a good swing would ensue, erasing the bitter taste of previous failures, egging me on to try to reproduce that magical feeling of seeing the ball far off in the distance. At $0.08 per ball this is one high-brow hobby I can somewhat afford, but sadly only once a week.

The calm after the thunderstorm made its impression by inviting the sun to lit up the city in its usual fashion. The clouds, so voracious in its appetite to devour any inch of blue sky this morning, gradually shed the melancholic dark grey color and change into an innocent white, and soon scattered around innocuously as if having no home to go to, a stark contrast to its earlier malevolent intent to wash away the earth.

Stepping out of the office, after eight hours of torturously monotonous work, I unbent my mental constraints and thrusted my face upward, to take in the fresh air and the dewy surroundings, where the usual primness is temporarily replaced by a glistening abstract texture. Suddenly I realize how long a way have I come to this junction, and how much along the way I have lost, things that are irretrievable and will never again be at my disposal, no matter how hard in trying to correct those mistakes.

I met up with Y. at a ramen shop. Y. showed me pictures documenting her sojourn in Northern Europe, where she made acquaintance of many great friends. In many ways I secretly admired, maybe even envied her for her personality, for her family background, for her temperament, for her liveliness and coldness, each alternating at irregular intervals. I've never made this impression upon her, for her aloofness towards people in general had prevented our friendship to gain any meaningful underpinning. Soon she will be going away to sojourn at some exotic corners of the Earth; and of her return we will once again nourish our lukewarm friendship with ramen and beer.

Under the tutelage of the dark, moonless night sky, thunder roared faintly in the distant gloom as if to signal the inhabitants of the encompassing wrath that is about the befall this placid town. The town, as if heeding the foreboding, is devoid of its usual nightly animal howling and mechanical noises that the few insomniac souls find so unsettling. Above sky, dark cloud gathered thickly in a desultory fashion, ready to plunder the town of its dryness by slamming heavy doses of precipitation upon parched roofs and streets, at the same time discharging icy cold air to penetrate even the most profligate quilt so the person underneath will shudder as if encountering a nightmarish murderer.

A night like abovementioned, which doesn't happen very often here, is usually a time for brooding, for contemplation and a little soul-searching. A night as such will have befitted those whose temperament aren't the brightest star out in the galaxy, as I find solace in melancholic settings.

Yet tonight I will not succumb to such romantic feelings, because I've just put down $950 for the Apple iBook! Rather than a joy, it's more like I have just unburdened myself of an heavy monkey that has been housing in my conscience, impede my mind from normal functioning. The purchase made today at the Apple store is more or less a capricious decision made on the whim, given that besides the iBook, as shown in the photo, there accompanies an iPod Mini. The Mini was really out of my calculation, but since Apple is offering the Mini for free (after main-in-rebate with the purchase of a computer) I suppose such opportunity shall not be missed, though in reality I have no practical need for the Mini, for my entire music collections remain stuck in the mid to late 90's and span no more than a box full of CDs. But what the heck, I will soon as I find time to upload my paltry music collections (at mere 100+) into the cute green machine. Although I for one does not like listening to music while walking the streets, of what use I will have for the Mini is tough enough a question for me.

It has been a while that a Saturday finds me unoccupied. Without obligations to perform work-related errands and other trifles, this day in suburbia Los Angeles I found delightful and relaxing. Such a day of blue sky and cool weather one shall avoid society altogether, so that however depleted one may feel, this is the day to recharge the battery.

This exemplary day is evidenced first thing in the morning. After I was awoken from Friday night's dinner party and carousing -- of which I was situated at the fringe of things, again -- I found myself in the mirror an element of freshness to my face. This is atypical, for usually I sport a more brooding, tired look. I don't know what attracted this tentative equanimity.

Then things got better. My Financial Times weekend edition rests submissively at the front porch, waiting for my tearing up the thin plastic enclosure and dive into reading. This week featured a very funny and engaging interview of "fashion supremo" Ermenegildo Zegna, and an equally excellent examination of how Google is changing the face of this planet. (This article is the first in which I found the phrase "pain in the ass" is used, not as a quotation, but by the reporter himself! But upon close look, the article is simply an extract from a soon-to-be-published book. My lively spirit is slightly dampen as a result.) I am often been asked why I read the FT because I am known to harbor no business aspiration and have no clue as to the workings of the financial world.

The clock struck 11:30 and suddenly I had a hankering for panini. It's funny how I crave panini on a regular basis. Yet whenever I make up my mind to disregard gasoline price and drive some distance to the panini bakery, I find the sandwich too greasy after a few bites and end up only consuming half the portion. Today, again, the same scenario took place. This the kind of irrational behavior I am so prone to espouse.

Fortunately a Coffee Bean is adjacent to wash away all the grease. This particular Coffee Bean had a airy feel to it ( uh, duh, the doors on two opposite ends are open). I ordered the cheapest item on the menu and chose a good seat next to the bay window. With the pleasant aromatic coffee smell and the euphony of coffee bean grinding servicing as the backdrop, I, in a leisurely pace, took up the reading of the FT and Thomas Mann's Doctor Faustus. This is probably the only time I found suburbia Los Angeles moderately agreeable, as I am looking out the window of sunshine splashed generously across the paved street.

After some weighty concentration on reading (I found the opening of Doctor Faustus no easy read) there grew an itch for checking my email and blog. I vaguely recall an Apple store nearby where I could take advantage of their free internet service. The only problem is getting to my car. I have a tendency to forget of which parking space I parked on. So there again goes the searching endeavor amidst the spacious strip mall parking lots.

Finally I got to the Apple store and purposely chose the iBook for my internet free ride. There is nothing better than free ride, I am convinced. As I direct Safari to Yahoo.com I was surprised to find that someone had forgotten to log out of their email account. Great, now you are just tempting my snooping, eavesdropping nature. Please, people, clean up after yourself! The better sense got me to go to another iBook.

I suppose my battery is charged fully. But for what? for another week at the unbearable office, doing what I hate? I sometimes dream of my younger self reflecting upon my current predicament, shaking and pointing finger in disapproval; by the same token, an older and wiser (Hopefully!) me entreating for my undertaking change and not wasting my fleeting 20's. Such a compromising situation I find myself in.

The Los Angeles International Airport represents ambivalent emotions on two extreme end. On the one hand is to see myself off, gleefully going through metal detectors and unconditionally surrender one's check-in luggage to be manhandled by careless handlers, leaving all chagrin in the world behind. On the other hand, one gathers in all chagrin and invidiousness when seeing friends off to a distant land, while conscientiously aware of the fact that I am still here.

L. and V.'s guided tour ended inexcusably off schedule. Normally I would let out a tirade on the tour company's unprofessional time management, but since I was able to see them off before departure, this proves to be a blessing in disguise. Of course, all this is done in a haste, of which right after work I had to maneuver in the midst of five o'clock traffic, darting this surface street and that, in the risk of getting ticketed by the ever-vigilant Torrance Police, only to be met by a discouraging spectacle of a clogged 91 freeway.

We finally met up around 6:30 and sat down to a steak and BBQ rib gluttony. After dinner, though with plenty time on hand, we wisely head straight to the airport to check-in early, in order to avoid the expected ensuing crowd. Certainly, when we arrived at LAX the crowd at the Singapore Airline counter was sparse, and the rigid luggage screening was done before the lines gathered momentum. With the extra time we saved from idly standing in line, we took a halfhearted walk through the duty free shops -- inasmuch as the items are not taxed, they were hugely mark up compare to street price. Then we ordered some coffee and ice cream shakes, again overpriced, and chatted till their boarding time.

Sadly, everything must end at some point. To see them off to their appropriate gate is to feel sorrow. We bid goodbye. As I walked alone toward the parking garage, enveloped by cold evening silence, my mind felt empty, drowning in abyss.

I am gladdened by L. and B.'s visit to Los Angeles from Taiwan. They are on a guided tour of California and Nevada and were able to free up whole day Saturday to spend time with me. Being a host of a city that I am still quite unfamiliar with, despite my lengthy stay so far, I wanted to do my best to show them the site and sound of L.A.

I met up with them Friday night for some pizza and discussed laboriously of where to go, what to see. Of course, being an outsider of L.A. social scenes, my list of sightseeing were mostly tourist traps and shopping places. (We'd already decided to eliminate theme parks -- Disneyland, Universal Studios, Sea World -- to avoid long lines of waiting for a two minute ride.) The important thing is that we get a chance to catch up on our much diverged life. We made an easy choice of taking in some Pacific Ocean breeze and let loose our shopping DNA.

We headed to the Santa Monica Pier from Fullerton, where their hotel is situated. Not to stray off topic, but I feel an undercurrent of need to file a grievance: Los Angeles is too @#%^&* BIG! Of our commute to and fro Gardena-->Fullerton-->Santa Monica-->Beverly Hills we very likely have spent a big chunk of our time idling in traffic and taking in the monotonous view of our fellow motorists, whom were equally amused by looking at us. Mass transit is literally nonexistent.

After some walking around on the pier we sat down at a Johnny Rockets for lunch, where they thought the hamburgers were too dry. Our bill for three persons turned out to be about $40! While we window-shopped we also saw many beautiful dogs on leash while their owners leisurely stroll through 3rd Street Promenade. We generally agree that dogs in the U.S. enjoy better treatment than those in Taiwan, where basic animal right is not taken for granted.

The day ended fairly quickly. I am really sad to see them go. Their guided tour and my working schedule will lend us no more time together. Of however little time we have, we chatted a great deal of our lives now. It seems as if we were transformed back in time, by which we were in our early student days (L. and B. are still attending university) and looks forward to life immensely. In reality, I have shed my studious carapace and put on a new one that is awkward and unfamiliar still. L. and B., I hope you will have more fun during the remain of the trip.

Please smack me across my forehead, for I've just dropped down US$50 on a computer mouse. The culprit here is the Apple Mighty Mouse, the signature Apple white aesthetic notwithstanding, the gadget itself is more or less retrograde for the fact that it is wired and costs more than a wireless. What is "evolution" (more like a concession to the PC world) about it is Apple's threshhold of left and right click, whereas previous models all featured single click annoyance. At first use the mouse is a bit ungainly, where the sensor system of deteching left and right click is a bit difficult to master (I got so frustrated at one point I was thinking of returning it); but afte a little more use the mouse works perfectly just like any other. Why do I spend my hard-earned dollar on such frivilous things I do not understand. Someone has pointed out that my vanity is the cause of it.

Earlier today I sat down to a green tea frappucino at a local Starbucks with my friend U. We got on talking about life in general and about how confused we all have become, when all of a sudden an incendiary question suddenly arose so unsuspectingly: Was I considering marriage at this point in time? U. confided that he will probably be engaged sooner or later with his girlfriend. Though we being in the same age group, the question has never protruded my conscience because all these time I am acting as if I were still in college and refused to accept the fact that I am now aged at 2x. Am I already at a crossroad where marriage must be part of my future consideration already? Perhaps I could be more mature and set my mind at ease with it, but doing so is conceding to the enermy. (The enermy here is lost of youth, vitality and the right to be wreckless and irresponsible and stupid -- I am somewhat influence by the novel The Picture of Dorian Gray.) My equanimity is thus gone, whatever that was left to me.

It has been an odd week, to say the least. What seemed to be an innocuous tropical storm, trespassing its way through the gulf states, turns out to be a wrath of nature so great, so forceful, so compelling that a city is practically flooded over and done with. The magnitude so unexpected that even the news media, so keen in their smell of blood, were slow to react to the devastation, until words got out that dead bodies heaped themselves in great numbers alongside streets and evacuation centers. One photo so telling of New Orleanians' blight as I saw on the cover of the New York Times.

On the other hand, what is even more surprising than the damages caused by the hurricane is the general nonchalance exuded by most people that I come in contact with. Unlike the war in Iraq or 911, of which so much emotions and enthusiasm were on display, the catastrophe in the gulf states is seldom discussed by the water cooler. Or maybe the people I hang out with are so dim-witted, myself included, that they just don't care.

Over here in Los Angeles the pulse of the city did not give the impression of major disruption except the price climb at gas stations. In a matter of 24, 48 hours regular gasoline in most stations have skyrocketed past the $3 benchmark, fueled by the news of damaged refineries along the gulf states will not resume normal function for a while.

Will high gasoline price dampen consumer confidence during the Labor Day weekend? where shoppers in throng pay their annual pilgrimage to major malls and outlets. I am most curious to find out. I for one have considerable lessened my desire to contribute economically to the retail industry.

My nondiagnostic depression is much under control these past weeks. For what cure there is I do not know, except that without my occasional depression I feel even more lonely and empty.

One and a half hour of work to go till Labor Day weekend, as my mind is racing against the clock in anticipation, but the clock always gives a slow, almost motionless, impression...