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Maybe it's time some one defended the place the rest of this country loves to hate. From the city streets of the East coast, to the corn farms of middle America, even as close as our Northern neighbors in Frisco (oops, they hate that nick name! ) Lala -land is shunned, slandered, and verbally assaulted by those imagining themselves somehow superior. Ah, they who are so obviously more sincere, less surgically-enhanced, less materialistic, more morally-grounded, less crazy and more tenacious, due to their steadfast habitation in some location of unruly weather conditions, which they are proud to endure, as if the Lord Himself had offered special bonus points for those remaining in climates their parents and grandparents were too stupid or too lazy to have pulled up stakes from, generations before!

Back when I lived in Chicago, I remember hearing the club kids slam L.A. even if they'd never been there themselves. Maybe they all knew they'd be safe picking on Her, since she had no ready defense, no dukes of Her own to put up. Most Angelenos haven't and won't ever bother to back up the buxom babe known as Los Angeles, simply because, hey, who's got the time with auditions, photo-shoots, lunch meetings, band rehearsals, the gym, our cars and our therapy? We most often respond to attacks on our dear City of Angels in colloquial cod phrases like, "Whatever". Translation: We don't really care. Well, I decided one sunny afternoon on Melrose, after a particularly strong double Frappucino, that I care. I decided to expound upon all of the wonder that is this place I call home, to shamelessly wallow in its fabulousnesswhich, incidentally, is a word even straight men in L.A. have the distinct and luxurious privilege to use freely as they see fit, unlike their hetero counterparts of other major cities, where the word is the exclusive expression of gay men and fashion models.

First, we are cordial. We are polite. Where else outside the Maharishi's immediate family, are the laws of Karma so stringently, yet cheerfully adhered to? You people in the Midwest might not care who you were in a past life, or who you're going to be in your next, but we do. And we're not going to blow our chances for an upgrade by cursing out some stranger who's just absent-mindedly spilled wine on us at a cocktail party. Besides, one never knows just who an absent-minded wine-spiller might be. (A producer? Casting director? Cosmetic surgeon?) Getting others into your Karmic Debt is all part of what we

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