It's the first big storm of the season, and my newly raked grass looks like a suburban New England street shot- that glance out the back window almost sent me to google for leaf blowers. It's an afternoon for fireplaces and Gram Parsons and Modern Drunkard, and maybe later an imported porter to block out the knowledge of my leaky windshield. It is winter in California, and I still don't own gloves. Can't stand skiing, and couldn't find romance in a lodge if you spotted me two Swiss blondes and a room key.

I always assumed the appeal of winter came from giving you a cheap excuse to do nothing indoors, and nobody could tell you to go out and enjoy the beautiful weather. I live in fucking California- I can enjoy it any time I want, so shut up already. Rain is one of the few guilt erasers here in purpose-land- unless somebody drops a "let's clean up the garage" on ya, you're free to watch afternoon tv or read magazines that list the top ten best reasons for getting drunk with far less eye-raising. The flip side is that you can't march the littl'uns out the front door to get 'em out of your hair. Thus, your cozy couch drunkard reading gets interrupted every two minutes with demands of other varieties, most of which involve stickiness. The sounds of Teletubbies are your soundtrack, and even sticking it to Jerry Falwell in the grave is little consolation. So I'm off to play another game of Battleship after I change another diaper. The wind is shaking the shutters, and I'm counting down til the cocktail hour. That's about as close as it comes to a winter wonderland in Piedmont, CA.