Walking in L.A.

I’ve lived in Chicago for my entire life (with the exception of a failed college experience that found me living in Kansas for two years; long story).  Those of us brought up in the City by the Lake are taught to have a disdain for the coasts: New Yorkers are dicks. Los Angelenos are flighty and too wealthy for their own good.  Or so the Midwestern lesson plan goes.

After a few business trips to Los Angeles, the most recent of which wraps up later this afternoon, I think I kinda love L.A.  The weather is magnificent, the scenery rubberneck-worthy, and the city in general is more navigable and manageable than I was ever led to believe. 

This isn’t to say I’d ever leave Chicago, mind you.  I just happen to love visiting here.  After spending time at the legendary (and decades-old) Farmer’s Market, Beverly Hills, and much of the Mid-Wilshire area on this trip, I’m already thinking about how to find my way back here.  Was it James Joyce…or Randy Newman…who said, “I love L.A.?”

As far as I can tell, the biggest problem with L.A. is that everyone here is more attractive than you or I can ever hope to be, and that’s factoring in surgical options.  Forget the actor-wannabe waiters, even the busboys at the restaurants I’ve been to all sport chiseled six packs and Dick Tracy jaws.  Women waiting in line at Starbucks–or even pumping gas at the Arco station–drive nearby men to high-five, and nearby women to cattily say, “I can’t believe the dress she’s wearing.”

I’m going to take in the tar pits before I head back to LAX tomorrow.  Maybe grab an In-N-Out Burger.   Play “West L.A. Fadeaway” by the Dead on my iPod.  Happy to be here.

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