They say there's no such thing as seasons in Los Angeles. Sorry to break this to you, but there are; it's just more subtle. And if you can't appreciate or recognize the subtleties, Mr. or Ms. Transplant, well, maybe you're the one who's superficial.
Anyway, the Militant spent his Friday night with one of his Is-This-Going-Anywhere-Or-Not female platonic friends in what may or may not actually be a date (no really, in this instance, the Militant isn't that proud of using his famous tagline). Oh it went well, but...wait, hold it! The Militant doesn't want to give out too many details on his personal life, so, enough with the background.
Anyway, as the Militant drove to the Westside, he noticed it. As he drove at the end of the night from the Westside via Downtown, he noticed it again. And from Downtown via surface streets back to his compound, yet again.
It was the sight, sound and feeling of those fallen autumnal leaves, swirling around by the Santa Ana Winds. He saw it on Venice Boulevard, he saw it on 8th Street, he saw it on Vermont Avenue. He has always wondered about those mysterious winds, as if they are a song that lasts all night, and even until the next day, whipping and bending the trees like an ongoing atonal symphony. Or perhaps they are the sound of the dry, invisible ocean that makes a ghostline appearance every so often.
Take a moment, stand still outside and let the wind envelop you. Let it whip your hair and ruffle your clothes. It's free. It's for all. Enjoy it.