Ugly sweater

I'm a cold weather kind of guy. Anything above seventy degrees, and I start sweating like I'm carrying a backpack filled with lead uphill through the rainforest.

I was in Austin this past weekend, visiting young Mr. Spielberg, and checking out how much return we're getting on that out-of-state tuition. We also had the pleasure of seeing my longtime friend and writer extraordinaire Cameron Day and his wife Debbie, and all going to watch Holland Taylor perform in ANN, which she's brought to the lucky theater goers of Austin for a few weeks.

When the show was over, we stepped out of the theater into the night, and it was just as exceptional as the days had been on this quick turnaround: low 70's, mild breeze, clear blue Texas skies. Since I wasn't going to be there long, I figured the weather would hold until I came home today.

Well, not so fast there Mr. Sweaty Face.

When I went outside this morning, it was ninety degrees and muggy. Really muggy. Steamy, salt-sweat in my eyes muggy. To add to the drenching, I had to carry not only my suitcase down two flights of Airbnb stairs, but also a large suitcase my son had packed up for me to bring home so he wouldn't have to do it in a couple weeks when summer break starts.

Always happy to help my boy, but by the time I got both of them downstairs I looked like I'd just stepped out from under a hot shower. I tried to wipe myself down, but that only lasted for a minute or two.

Wait, what's that? A gentle, cool breeze? Oh thank God. What?! What do you mean it's over?! Crap.

The topping on the cake was I was standing in front of the building, and my Lyft driver pulled up on the side street and waited for me there. So I had to take the two suitcases and drag (roll) them almost half a block to him. Alright, maybe it was a hundred yards. Ok, feet. But still, the end effect was the same. I was a walking puddle.

Having come from the mean streets of West L.A., north of Wilshire, I always loved going to cities that had what I like to call real seasons. Where the temperature changed, and you don't really know from one minute to the next what it'll be. To my point of view, that's the way nature intended it, not this continual perfect, dry weather year in and year out.

But after this morning in Austin, I've reconsidered my opinion and decided I love the predictable, pleasant, dry weather here just fine, and I'm never going to complain about the lack of seasons again.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some serious laundry to do.

City of angels

I have a complicated relationship with L.A. It's a love/hate relationship, the kind only someone, like myself or anyone who's ever had a high school girlfriend can appreciate.

And when I say someone like myself, I mean a native. Born and raised. Never lived anywhere else.

All too often, the city grabs my arm, pulls it up behind my back until it hurts and makes me start sentences in that way. "When I was a kid..." and "Back when I was in high school..." and "Let me tell you what traffic used to be like."

The major love/hate component of the city is the weather. I've always been torn. On one hand, I'd love to live in a city with real seasons, for example San Francisco. Yeah, yeah, I can hear all the L.A. people whining about how we have seasons too, just not as extreme.

Listen, I've lived here my whole life. There are only two seasons: summer, and construction.

However if I may be allowed to contradict myself (not sure why I'm asking permission for something I do on a daily basis), there are stunningly beautiful days when the east coast is buried in a blizzard or being hit by hurricane Roker and it's ninety and sunny here.

It's the kind of weather that sets Facebook on fire, with everyone posting the same sunny picture of wispy white clouds, the tops of palm trees or the ocean and sarcastic, mocking greetings to the eastern brethren.

Another cause of so much of my agita (look it up) about the city is the fact it's just such a whore. L.A. won't waste a second tearing down its history to put up a strip mall or new fusion sushi restaurant. Cliché but true.

I've watched it tear down or lose places that gave it character and personality. For every Tommy's or Pink's, there's a Spanish Kitchen that's now a beauty salon. Or a Wilshire Blvd. Bob's Big Boy that's a BMW dealership. At least the former Pan Pacific Auditorium is a park people can enjoy. The city gets older but no wiser.

There are even websites, like this one, that revel in articles why L.A. is the worst place ever.

My entire attitude reminds me of the old joke: "Do you have trouble making up your mind?" "Well, yes and no." That's my ongoing debate about the city of my birth.

But I'm nothing if not Mr. Glass Half Full, although not with rain water because we're in the seventh year of a statewide drought. Which in L.A. only means one thing: waiters are required to serve Evian at brunch.

Anyway, for the moment I'm not going anywhere. Even though there are states where I could buy city blocks for what I could sell my house for, I just can't seem to leave L.A. behind.

One last thing that bothers me about this urban sprawl of a city is that, bar none, at every restaurant they always..oh crap, look at the time. I gotta get to my audition.

Hold that thought.

One of these is not like the other

People, jealous petty people, are fond of saying Los Angeles doesn't have seasons like real cities do. As someone born and raised here, I can tell you we most certainly do have seasons.

We have two. Construction, and Girl Scout Cookies.

If you've been to a market, home improvement store, mall or gentrified shopping district, you already know right now we're in the thick of Girl Scout Cookie season. And the cuteness is definitely in full bloom.

Tonight the wife and I had a dinner date. The kids were out at a rehearsal for a school show, so we took advantage of the alone time and went to a local place called the Deli News, which is neither a deli or a newsstand.

Anyway, in front of the restaurant was a GSC table being manned (womanned?) by two parents. In front of them, close to the curb so cars could see her, was one of their daughters - about eight years old - jumping up and down with the energy of a cheerleader on Red Bull and holding a stop-sign shaped sign that read "Please buy cookies!"

The wife and I exchanged a look, and we walked up to her. I said, "Excuse me, you know where I can get some thin mints around here?" She thought for a moment, then a big smile came over her face and, pointing at the table, she said, "Right over there!"

The wife and I went up to the table, and made the purchase you see in the picture. Now, I was willing to stop at the two boxes of Thin Mints. My needs are few, and two boxes meet them just fine. However, the wife had a hankerin' for something in the peanut butter family. And since Mr. Peanut wasn't available, she opted for the do-si-dos.

Here's something you don't know about me: I'm not a peanut butter guy. Never liked it, never will. For me, the only reason peanut butter exists is to get my dogs to take their pills. But if it makes the wife happy, I'm glad to pony up the fin.

Besides, you know what they say - happy wife, happy you won't get killed in your sleep over something you said three years ago.

The problem with Girl Scout Cookie season is once you buy from one cookie pusher, you're pretty much stocked up and have to say no to all the other ones. As they learn all to quickly, it's a first-come-first-sold world out there. But I hope they all sell out their entire cookie inventories, and get all the badges their little hearts desire. They've earned it.

I also hope they do it before construction season starts and makes it harder to get to those tables.