IT’S THE END of October, but I live in Los Angeles, which means it might as well be May 23 or February 9 or the middle of June or Christmas. The seasons mean nothing here. That’s part of living in a “”””””””PARADISE”””””””” (SO MANY QUOTES!); the time just seems to pass without the signal of blooming flowers and turning leaves. The weather in LA, like the people, is on mood stabilizers. We’ve got two seasons here, Pilot Season and Yom Kippur! Hah! Ahahaha! (I stepped away from my computer and alternated between swinging a fake golf club and straightening a nonexistent tie for six weeks right after I typed that.)
Anyone who tells you that Los Angeles is irredeemable is either disingenuous or the worst kind of tourist. It’s a fine place to live when you aren’t living in Portland. The weather, though… there is that. I miss the seasons.
Autumn, friends, autumn is powerful dope. Those cold, tight mornings. The air smells like it fell asleep next to a campfire and hasn’t washed its hair yet. Summer comes in like a lover; passionate and fun and ubiquitous, but three or four months of that shit? It’s crowding you in bed, its hot breath pelts your neck, you can’t fall asleep, and then… autumn. Sweatshirts. Fog.
I’m an optimist, though. I won’t let Los Angeles shine-block my autumnal indulgence. I will manufacture autumn, if I must. I will drink my very first pumpkin spice latte. OH SHIT, IAN, 260 WORDS INTO THE COLUMN IT ALL OF A SUDDEN BECOMES ABOUT PUMPKIN SPICE LATTES? YES. YES. I AM A GOOD WRITING-ER.
I’m a utilitarian coffee drinker. I’ve taken it black for as long as I can remember. Most mornings I just drink cold brew concentrate out of a jug I keep inside an old Civil War cannon. I’m not in the coffee game for the flavor and I’M DUBIOUS OF ALL OF YOU WHO PRETEND YOU CAN APPRECIATE THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN PLAID PANTRY SHIT AND HEART ROASTERS SHIT. The internet is all silly-goosed about pumpkin spice lattes with various iterations of hyperbole, but it’s never really appealed to me. Now, though, in the interest of replicating the Oregon falls of my recent youth, I’m going to listen to this Fleet Foxes album and drink this fucking PSL. These are the last words I will write before my journey.
Okay, so that didn’t taste like a pumpkin at all, which is GOOD, because ain’t a one of us walking around eating pumpkins, but still… what the fuck is pumpkin spice? Is it a spice latte and then also pumpkin? Is it pumpkin spice? Pumpkin isn’t a spice, pumpkin is a gourd. Gourds and spices are mad different. My mouth feels like it’s coated in lingering artificial unpleasantness. I feel thick. I feel like summer. Tune in next week when I get blackout drunk on Rumple Minze.
Next week in LOS ANGELES AS FUCK: More about Los Angeles. Did I mention I live in Los Angeles? Loooos Aaaaangeeeeleeees.
I used to spend summers visiting my grandmother in Los Angeles. I always came back feeling like a part of my soul was missing. It’s like the Never Ending Story or perhaps taking some bad molly. You don’t want to fuck around with the nothingness for too long, you might never make it back in one piece.
I’m tentatively extending an offer to eat this column, three sticks of cinnamon, some ginger, cloves, mace, allspice, nutmeg, and a half pound of Stumptown’s finest peaberry to ferment in my intestine for a week.
I will expel for you the world’s first human Kopi Luwak PSL. You may still not be able to distinguish the flavor between the two products but at least my Portland version comes with one heck of a backstory.
Angelinos are totally harmless. Just stand still, let them feel your hair/skin, maybe sniff you a few times and then you’re part of the pack. Plus they have KCRW.
Dude, don’t do that spice shit, even the pumpkn flavor. it will eff u the hell up. It’s obviously hurting your writing ability. So stick with the natural stuff.