I’m aware that complaining about temperatures in the 30s and 40s makes me sound like a real Southern California wimp, but Palm Springs feels really cold this year. And therefore I’m not feeling the festive aspects of the Palm Springs International Film Festival. Because everything is primarily about scarves and bundling up and turning up the heat. It’s like The Day The Earth Caught Fire in reverse here. Or like the Iceland Film Festival in Reykavik. Somehow desert cold gets to you much more than New York cold, and I know that sounds illogical. Whatever I do today, I’m doing it inside with a sweater — I know that much. I love the baking heat here in the spring and early summer. I love the way you can just air-dry when you climb out of the pool. During a late-summer visit 20 years ago I cracked open an egg and poured the yolk and egg white onto the pavement to see how long they would take to start sizzling.