While people all over make fun of L.A. for being vacuous and lacking a soul, I am coming out of the closet here to say that just like Randy Newman, I love L.A.
First of all, there is the weather. Admittedly, I thought it would be warmer, and didn’t pack well, but while it was 16 in Boston, it was between 50-72 in the city of Angels. IN THE MIDDLE OF WINTER. Right there, all by itself, it’s a city flat out flirting with my devotion. And let’s talk palm trees. I don’t know, I guess it’s because they’re not an East Coast thing and carry a bit of vacation sexiness, but I have always had a crush on these green water fountains. Pacific Coast Highway is the gosh darn bomb. I mean, there you are driving and right next to you is da beach. For miles and miles and miles. And, well, I have salt water in my blood. Did someone say shopping? I can’t even count the ways this city kills it in the shopping department. Food? There are like a bajillion restaurants and I’ve yet to even get it on with more than a handful, but what I’ve tasted so far has seduced me into submission. Yes, there’s traffic. Yes, there’s smog. But I have to give it to L.A. for having so much of all the stuff I live for all wrapped up into one sprawling city. Sing it, Randy.