Why No One in L.A. Grows Old

I can explain all the plastic surgery, dyed hair, Botoxed lips and skin and obsession with youth that characterizes my city. In fact, I can sum it up in one word, the most beautiful word in the English language. Autumn.

You see, there is no autumn in LA. Yes, a few leaves whither. Some trees do a reasonable imitation of dying. But compared to the glorious flourishes of fall that characterize the eastern states, LA has no autumn. So no one sees the beauty of age.

Here it is all spring. You have to stay young until you die. That is unhealthy. It is unnatural. It is LA.

Perhaps if we could persuade the foliage to offer us some gold, some copper, some real rustic loveliness, people in LA would not feel that a wrinkle was synonymous with ugly decay. But until autumn comes to LA, it will be a culture of perpetual youth, till death does us part. Ultimately it is not the superficiality of the culture, the demands of Hollywood, or the fulminations of Harvey Weinstein. Its all about the weather.