Clementine season is approaching. Thus, Clementime. I will constantly smell like Christmas until the last little orange is gone.

Also, ask me to do my impression of someone meeting Joni Mitchell for the first time in 1968. It involves me pretending to hear 15 songs in a row and saying the word “ethereal” a lot. I’m reading the book Girls Like Us by Sheila Weller, and it is jam-packed with juicy gossip about the rock/folk scene in the ’60s (and beyond, but I’m not quite there yet). It’s fun. Warren Beatty was a perv and everyone on earth dated James Taylor.  And I think I’ve taken Carly Simon for granted.  I apologize.