To quote Larry Daivd, "It's enough already." Sure, it seems fun: these slow, warm, lazy, final days of summer in the sand and surf. Mid-April of the year, I could barely wait to toss off the Hugh Hefner smoking jacket and J. Crew plaid flares. Now, deep into September (standard SoCal heat wave season) I've donned neither real shoes nor actual clothing in months: the de rigueur uniform for April-September around here is a bikini and a Tahitian bark-cloth sarong. As a rule, unless absolutely necessary, like Kevin Dillon's Entourage character Johnny Drama, I do not venture inland April-October; if I really must, I hydrate well. (Legend has it today was 108 in the Inland Empire. No thank you.)

It's too hot to eat anything and my hair has reverted to its natural, Polynesian-frizz state. I blame Dad's Hawaiian genes. Despite copious amounts of Aveda anti-humectant pomade and Kiehl's "deeply restorative" saffron hair oil, all I can bear to do is whip up my wet blanket of locks into a neat, tight, ballerina bun. In the midst of our current, heinous heat wave, I've given up trying to style myself on any level, leaving me fashioned more like a cross between Rebecca De Mornay in Lords of Dogtown and a wet seal. My preferred, vintage mode of Dita Von Teese-meets-American Hustle shall have to wait. I will concede, however, that nighttime around here smells glorious in the summer, despite being too hot to actually sleep: the evening air conflates with the aroma of bonfires, salt air and suntan oil. It smells like a delivery truck of Hawaiian Tropic SPF2 crashed and spilled all over a Yosemite campground.

Sweet smells of coconut or no, I am done. Done with summer. If you follow my blogs, books and bewildering Tweets regularly (Thank you, BTW!), you know well of my linen-thin tolerance for picture-perfect, postcard weather. To be sure, I can do the bikini & martini thing when the situation calls for it; I can do summer with the best of them! It's just not my altogether gig. Oh sure, to quote Alec Baldwin (commenting on Jerry Seinfeld's charmed life, but apropos here), my life does seem to be "one unbroken boulevard of green lights". 'Tis a grand life, no doubt ... but I need some rain, snow and viable change-of-seasons once in a while. I crave a good old-fashioned, Seattle-style, clam chowder-and-Guinness, incessant kind of rain. Besides, sunscreen is bonkers expensive; my sundry fund needs a break.

Colour me whiny, but this is my traditional, late-summer rant. I imagine fellow Spooky Girls, Kat Kinsman (CNN's Eatocracy writer,) and Rebecca Lane (pretty half-Brit, vintage gal and L.A. actress à la Old Hollywood) understand fully. Right now, in their funky noggins they're scheming Hallowe'en costumes, dusting off Bettie Page cap-toe shoes and shaking out vintage, velvet opera capes, just waiting patiently for the right day to wear it all. (Lucky for Ms. Kinsman, she lives in Brooklyn. She should have cool weather very soon.) Thankfully for us California Spooky Girls, October, and Halloweentime at Disneyland, are only a tad further nigh.

When I can, I will dash to the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland, to assuage my Gothic and autumnal needs. Film and TV like Sleepy Hollow, Midnight in Paris, It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, Hocus Pocus, Northern Exposure, The X-Files and Charmed keep my psyche in Gomez Addams-style, Burberry velvet blazers, patent leather boots and vintage homburgs. There's also a score of literature and art to keep Moi excited about an East Coast autumn: Nathaniel Hawthorne, Phaedra Weldon, Anne Rice, Edgar Allan Poe, Tonya Hurley, Katherine Howe and, of course, old, Charles Addams comic books.

In case you're feeling a tad sun-stroked yourself, please enjoy my slideshow above: a smattering of delightfully gloomy and wintry imagery for the sunny/Gothic soul. Snaps of rain, dark skies, puppies in sweaters, Vikings in scarves, cozy autumn mode, Jack-o-lanterns, ravens, ghost pirate-ships, drippy candleabra, black-lace parasols and Johnny Depp ... Spooky Girls always like Johnny Depp.

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“There’s an awful lot of weird, pasty people in here, myself included.” So went my recurring, silent observance throughout this year’s Comic-Con, striking oft as I flitted hither and thither through the San Diego Convention Center, like a frantic mosquito seeking an open window on a muggy, Malibu, summer’s day. The pastiness was not truly what struck me, nor was the definitive weirdness. The real oddity was, like in so many gatherings where we geeks gather en masse -Renaissance Faire, Disneyland- the convergence of and shoulder-to-shoulder conditions pressed upon so many individuals not generally prone to mainstream socializing. Moi? I haven’t left my Hotel del Coronado much since 1934. Dr. Lucy, my ghostie cohort? 1904. Judging by the bevy of pale and malleable bodies endeavouring some severely awkward social interactivity, they’ve not left their abodes since 1904 either. Need more than just one fat Slave Leia? Dr. Lucy’s Comic-Con 2012 Gallery of Oddities!

 From the start The Darlings of Orange County reads like a film: pirates, sexy Swedes, beautiful surfers, brooding femme fatale brunettes and volatile redheads running amok amidst the sunny and sandy shores and stores of Newport, Laguna and Dana Point. Natch, any writer will tell you their book should be a narrative film. Yet, clearly some scream for the marquis lights more than others. I mean, just look at the cover art!

Here's the question I posit to those of you whom have read the book: who do you envision in the various roles? Sure, many of the main and supporting characters are dysfunctional, self-obsessed, superego, mendacious murderers, drug dealers and all-around finks; yet, like any good Anne Rice novel, most of them are also hiding some innate goodness and are preternaturally beautiful, without aesthetic flaw. They are mathematically perfect specimens with hearts of bronze.

Suffice it to say there's an opening or two for the likes of Brad Pitt (Kalifornia-Brad, not Benjamin Button-Brad), Matthew McConaughey, Zach Galifianakas, Parker Posey, Adrianne Curry, Anne Hathaway, Ed Helms, Sofia Vergara and the like. Bien-sur, scribbled on a Hello Kitty piece of notepaper, I have my definitive actor wishlist: distinct actors paired with specific characters. Oh sure, I suppose I'll have to sign Johnny Depp, Robert Downey, Jr., Conan O'Brien and some of the other stars dotted throughout the pages. Still, who's your John Everyman playing Pardo, Ryan or Tucker; who's the Betty-next--door playing Veronica, Kieran, Astrid or Sasha?

As far as Chet Darling goes, the scruffy, sketchy, Captain Ronesque land-pirate who lives on a broken down yacht in Dana Point harbor, subsisting by making canvas covers for boats and costumes for Renaissance Faire folk? It's Zach Galifianakis (The Hangover, Muppets Most Wanted) and only Zach on my dream casting list.

Clearly, the title needs to lap dance on the right people.  If you were the right lap, who would you cast? Head to Amazon's The Darlings of Orange County forum to see whom other readers envision and let your wishes and fantasies be known! If you're shy, you can even just write us a note here at our Contact page; we'll pass it along to Jerry Bruckheimer personally! Tell Hollywood it's time to bring some H-town sizzle to the shores of the O.C. (Psst. BTW, don't call it that.) Film rights still available. Tweet

What you have to understand is that good writing isn't necessarily saleable, and a lot of people get rich writing awful bullshit. -Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in America

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(Warning to Savannah of Williamsburg readers, parents, teachers et al: please, note this is NOT a Savannah-title by any means, hence the need for user-registration. No kiddies allowed. Aside from the overall goal of awareness in a world of dwindling standards, it is an endeavour to dip my quill into a new genre. Adults will love it, I promise you ... your children must not. Book IV in the Savannah Series, however, is being written currently and is, as always, completely child-appropriate.)