Fairfax & Melrose

I’ve lived in Los Angeles long enough now to notice a two-degree temperature drop and the standard grey, morning haze lasting an extra hour and excitedly exclaim, “Fall is in the air!” It’s what I have to work with down here.

Autumn is my favorite time of year. I’m eager to cuddle up in coats, drink steamy brews, over-do holiday cooking, celebrate Walrus Day, and frankly, I like the melancholic pallor it casts o’er humanity – makes my fellow man seem more relatable than when they’re sweating and spiking balls over nets, behavior which makes me skittish and distrustful.

Of course I know this new chill in the air may be a tease; there’s always opportunity for Mother Nature to Alan Funt the situation. I’m not boxing up my cargo shorts and ice cube collection just yet, but I am eager. To prepare, I’ve hand-selected the finest mini-marshmallows to serve in cocoa (I myself hate eating marshmallows – they’re like sugar-sweetened, antique erasers, but ironically I delight in judging and organizing them), I’ve begun psychologically manipulating the boyfriend with subliminal messages while he watches The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills to favor Douglas Firs over White Firs, and I’ve taught my cats to knit their own sweaters. (To be honest, this last effort has been a real power struggle, with both felines putting up a lot of resistance and excuses:

Assholes.

It reminds me of when you see a girl who’s so fine, she almost becomes a villain. Like she’s doing it just to torment you. Like, wow you are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen you asshole.

Is there anyone out there with technical know-how who lives in LA that can help me put together my podcast? You must be house-broken, not say mean things about diet Coke, know how to record and broadcast a podcast, and never trick me into getting addicted to heroin (please).

I’m drinking kiefer and listening to Lil’ Kim. Don’t take it personally.

I’m concerned, a teeny bit, about the phenomena of cute cats on the Internet. Increasingly, I’m seeing how the no-fail excitement of kitty-cams and what-not is impacting, not only the World Wide Web, but TV commercials as well. Word is out, and cat footage has gone viral on our screens like AIDS on the prettiest boys of 1984.

Now I’m listening to Jayne County and the Electric Chairs. I’m out of kiefer, so I’m drinking coffee.

Call it a survival kit.

I love my boyfriend, and I never find myself wishing he was gone; all the same, I cherish these times when it’s just me and the cats. It’s not that the boyfriend keeps me from doing anything, per se, but self-respect  keeps me from behaving certain ways in his presence.

For example, alone, I do nothing with my hair other than washing it. The result is a blond afro which effectively doubles the size of my already-capacious noggin. I wear a wife-beater constantly – something that never fails to get me not laid in this house – and if it’s too cold, I simply toss a hoodie over the wife-beater. That’s fashion, kids.

The cover for my new album, Save Auntie