Ahh, Autumn Comes to the Southland--Ahhh-Choo!

Ahh. Autumn again in the Southland. Just one second. Gotta blow this nose. These infernal Santa Anas just . . . there. Now where were we? Right. Autumn in the Southland, and the air looks like it was brought to you by Mr. Clean.

Of course, looks aren’t everything. Take these red eyes. They look like a symptom of the Tropical Death Flu. They’re not. They’re the symptom of the Southland fall. Isn’t it amazing how the October air in L.A. can take on the exact consistency of pulverized drywall, and yet be so perfectly transparent that you can not only see Santa Catalina Island, but Santa Catalina Island can even see you?

And yet, here it is, autumn in the Southland, and even your beautician is dying to know: How did your hair get so flat and clingy? And those crow’s feet! So clearly etched around your dried-out eye sockets, your kids could do rubbings as an art project! Where’s that Kleenex? Ever notice how mouth-breathing makes even attractive people look like trout?

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Where’s that little varmint El Nino? Because we were told, ahem, that this autumn wasn’t supposed to be like all the rest. We were told to expect autumn in the Southland to resemble, say, an actual autumn, with actual moisture, possibly even actual rain. So what about it?

And where’s the actual hand cream? And what do you mean, cranky and uptight? Who can be uptight when it’s autumn in the Southland? Could you hand me that Chapstick? You’re a doll.

Autumn, in fact, is said to be Southern California’s best season, a time of rosy sunsets and bonus beach days. Some of my personal favorite memories are from L.A. autumns. My wedding day. The birth of our middle child.

Of course, come to think of it, I said my wedding vows with a wad of soaked Kleenex in one hand because I had severe bronchitis that day, brought on by a sinus infection, brought on by Santa Ana winds.

And--it all comes back--it was 107 degrees on the October day our little girl came into the world. (For those who would like to approximate that experience, first, do something to give yourself the worst cramps of your life. Next, lock yourself in a sauna. Now, fully clothed and sweating profusely, practice Lamaze breathing techniques for 17 hours. No swearing allowed! Remember, you have a grade-schooler in the room.)

The fact is, autumn is like so much about this place--a beautiful, relentless con. Every year, you look forward to scrubbed air and Indian summer, and every year you get brush fires and static and postnasal drip.

This makes you angry. If you are up on your Joan Didion, you deal with this anger according to time-honored Los Angeles tradition, which is to say you wait until you hear the bougainvillea rattling in the driveway, then you pick up a meat mallet and beat the daylights out of the lady next door. If not, you forget the bougainvillea and the cooking implements, and use something handier, say, a live coyote or a small gardener with a leaf blower strapped to his back.

What do you mean, hostile? Who can be hostile when the National Weather Service is predicting temperatures in the mid-90s continuing into the weekend? Who can complain, except maybe people who have a little problem with these lovely Santa Ana winds?

We have no such problem. Uh-uh. We love the heat. We love the wind. We wish it would go on and on and on. Because it’s autumn in the Southland, and no matter how much it annoys you just to inhale, you know that if you can make it through this, you can make it through anything.

So, where were we? Oh yes, autumn in the Southland, and the air is sassy and hot. Outside, the eucalyptus leaves are drier than yesterday’s corn chips, but what do you care? You are an Angeleno. You are prepared.

You are the guy with one hand on the Chapstick and the other on a handkerchief, the guy with Visine in his pocket and Dristan up his nose. You are the guy with one eye on the meat mallet and the other on the neighbor. You are the guy who’s thinking, “Autumn again in the Southland. Ahh. Ahhh. Ahhhh. . . . Ahhhhhh-CHOO!”