Double the Pleasure, Double the Fun

In Los Angeles, where we've embraced everything from public urination to breast implants as a "Sweet 16" present, we are hardly shocked by anything. Celeb hangers-on, deluded teens who watch too much MTV and other people slightly off the reservation try to create a more...intense version of themselves, hoping to shock and amuse the world until it taps them for reality television. Reality T.V. has replaced any type of entertainment career that requires skill, and it's become the lazy man's road to fame. Delusions of grandeur must be exhausting, because these lazy social climbers are everywhere, touting their gimmick. I hadn't seen authentic people worthy of a reality show until I met The Glass Twins.

They're not heiresses, they're not pageant queens and neither of them are sleeping with Jude Law. But they are, as they say, the "twinniest twins you'll ever meet." No but seriously.

I met them for happy hour at Tokyo Table when I noticed they were counting their edamame.

I asked, "What are you guys doing?"

"Counting our soybeans, so we can eat the exact same amount of food," they replied breezily.


"So we can be the exact same weight."

"Pound for pound?"

"Oh yea. We work out together too, in circuits doing the exact same exercises."

* They live together and sleep in the same bedroom. They have separate beds, but the beds are identical with matching sheets and teddy bears on top.

* They founded a glamorous marketing company called GT Events. The G is for Glass and T is for Twin. They share one cell phone.

* They wear the same outfit every day, right down to a specific costume ring that slips onto the same finger. The only variation is in color, as these girls need color to help people distinguish one from the other. I still can't tell who is who.

They're constantly joking about never getting married. They realize their bond can barely squeeze in room for another party, let alone two. But they're fine with it. Hollywood executives have offered them shows with elaborate plots that shove in a love interest and a great divide, but they won't fake it. Not even for television. Oh they'd love to do a show, but they're keeping it real. Amy and Becky Glass love their life the way it is, and this rare confidence should be the one true reason they do belong on T.V.

Check them out!

Official Site

Join The Glass Twins on Facebook!

GT Events



Silverlake is the Brooklyn of Los Angeles. Hipsters in skinny jeans took over apartments and opened boutiques, determined to make the place their own. Like Brooklyn, the new residents ignored the neighborhood's checkered past and redefined it as a subculture mecca, for good or for Pabst Blue Ribbon.

I sometimes felt like an outsider shopping at these boutiques, as if wearing a fanny pack only they could see. The aloof shop girls and boys were pin thin, had perfectly mussed hair and were always listening to an indie band that was 3 months ahead of my own natural discovery. I on the other hand eat gluten, have shiny hair and still like The Shins.

Well, the economy has rocked even this stalwart Indier-Than-Thou scene. Boutiques are struggling, and instead of peering at one another like nosy neighbors to see who falls first, they have decided to band together. Los Feliz and Silverlake shops set up booths and threw a Recessionista party! There was an open bar, a DJ and heart-stoppingly low prices. As I perused aisle after aisle of reinvented vintage and owl pins made of felt, I felt the love between the once-competitive designers. As the free liquor flowed, there was much, "I've always admired your knitwear," and "I have been jealous of your window displays for years!"

It was nice. Or maybe it was my armful of $4 tees from Blood is the New Black. Regardless, they are learning to love thy neighbor, and their community rushed out to love thy sale. These hipsters are hell-bent on making their neighborhood thrive so they can once again peer at us civilians with the fanny packs only they can see.


Celebrity Trainers - The Only Kind Now?

There's an entire industry banking on our holiday weight gain anxiety. In reality, the average American gains only three pounds, which is lost again by February. This time of year, we are inundated with ads and T.V. shows promoting weight loss and the new staple: celebrity trainers.

Celebrity trainers. Are they the only kind that count these days? Hyper, square-jawed spandex lovers can't grace the stage of The Today Show or Oprah without having stuffed a celebrity under their belt. We now expect the word celebrity to precede trainer, and if it does not, the concept sounds empty. If your clients aren't on a "Marty" basis with Mr. Scorcese, you don't count.

Some people seem to use celebs not to bolster, but to create their image. Yoga guru Vinnie Marino only allows personal praise on his website from those who have made the silver screen, or at least network television. Jennifer Jason Leigh, David Duchovny & Robert Downey Jr. have their praise quoted throughout his website. Celeb trainers are granted book deals, reality television shows and exercise videos, regardless of their level of knowledge and expertise in the field.

Just to level the playing field, there is a downside to this hubris and celebrity worship. Under the constant and menacing public eye, their beloved celebs might fluctuate in pounds. US Weekly will zoom in on a pencil-thin fat roll as Reese Witherspoon dines at a sidewalk cafe and DListed will blow up a photo of Jennifer Love Hewitt munching on a chicken leg and title it, "The Roast Whisperer."


Thank You, Los Angeles!

In light of Thanksgiving, I'd like to thank the City of Angels for the following:

- This week's romantic downpours and thunderstorms

- Sharon Wysong, the hottest masseuse in L.A.: http://www.studiocitymassagetherapy.com/

- The L.A. Public Library - We can drop off books at any branch & rent stacks of free movies!

- Frog Island's unapologetic, un-P.C. hilarity: http://www.frogislandcomedy.com/

- The leash-free dog beach in Long Beach

- Bryan Kest's Power Yoga: http://www.poweryoga.com/

- The glorious Mexican food

Things I WISH I was thankful for:

- The overturning of Prop 8

- Heidi and Spencer getting lost in the Bermuda Triangle

- All press who still consider them "news" following them into the Bermuda Triangle

Happy Thanksgiving!


We're on Fire

It smells like a campfire outside. I try not to enjoy it because it's the smell of people's lives going up in flames. I see the vivid, cartoon-like sunsets and attempt to refrain from marveling at them. Thousands of people have lost their homes so I don't complain about my watery eyes and choked-up sinuses. I feel a bit guilty that it's less shock and more awe in my case. This place has turned upside down.
In Los Angeles, brushfire season is in autumn. The summer bakes our land until it's dry and crispy, then the hot Santa Ana winds sweep in and cause a ruckus.

The fabled Santa Ana winds have been romanticized for centuries. Known to Indians as The Devil's Wind, the Santa Anas are said to have their origin in old Spanish, Santana's Wind, which translates to Satan's Wind. According to research, the winds are electrified by a high dose of positive ions that make people act a little funny. These winds explain a laundry list of phenomena, from dizziness to depression. Serotonin production increases and people cry, they fight and they get it on.

In the cult films Less Than Zero and White Oleander, the Santa Ana winds are major dark forces behind the plots. The winds are mentioned in L.A. Story, the song L.A. Woman by The Doors and even in the original Beverly Hills, 90210 series.

Every single year when these mysterious winds sweep in, I always anticipate mood swings and sudden bursts of passion. But it seems the only drama brought on by the Santa Anas are injured firemen, flying cinders and a surge in homelessness. This is not the kind of drama Hollywood likes to feed on. All the Nazis behind A Smoke Free California are fuming they can't control this one, or at least make people feel guilty by sneering and spouting rude comments. And with our air clouded by free radicals, hysterical starlets are scampering for appointments with their facialists.

My heart goes out to everyone affected by this, except for the starlets and Smoke Free California Nazis.


The Emperor's New Show

A friend called recently to ask if I'd like to make a couple of extra bucks. He was having a hard time hustling a group of people to be "fake audience members." Now, I know what a real audience member is. They're extras who get paid $75 to sit through mediocre daytime talk shows. They are cued to burst into applause when hosts say things like, "At first I thought it was just a mole, but then I learned melanoma detection!" An audience member's job is to convince America, "If I can sit through this, so can you!!"
But a fake audience member?

In short, I had to go to The Grove (an outdoor mall made to look like a quaint village) and pretend to be a shopper who just so happened to run into a publicity stunt for an upcoming T.V. show. I was expected to quiver with anticipation because my enthusiasm had to draw in crowds. The execs were so intent on bringing hype to the poorly-advertised sitcom, that they didn't consider it was yet unknown and was cast with no-name actors. That is, except for the gentleman whom I will refer to as, "I-married-a-model/actress-oh-who-am-I-kidding?-she's-a-model" guy.

So there I stood, shopping bag in hand. I bump into a velvet rope. "Oh, what's this?" I said aloud. I then looked up to see a cluster of tiny men and women sweating through a relay race. The press snapped photos patiently as the heavily-powdered cast members had their every move tracked by a comedian. But each and every one of the cast members were completely useless and inconsequential to the gathering group of onlookers, save for the "I-married-a-model/actress-oh-who-am-I-kidding?-she's-a-model" guy.

But I had a job to do. I gasped and whooped from my measly civilian post across the velvet rope. I looked around to ensure I was making good on my word and drawing in a crowd. But as I looked around, I realized they weren't focused on the publicity stunt. All eyes were on me, the overly-hyper shopper screaming for no apparent reason.

In a town where everyone is hustling hype, we have got to get a little more sophisticated.


Pho Shizzle

Back East, the city streets swarmed with Europeans. They always wore scarves and gestured with their hands. In California many of our transplants are Asian, since the Far East is across the pond. Unlike the Europeans, many Asians open restaurants upon settling in. And thank God because let's face it, aside from French cuisine, European food is mediocre. Boiled chicken and potatoes? No wonder the Irish drink.

L.A.'s landscape is dotted with top-notch dim sum joints and Thai bistros. But nothing is as good, and unfortunately obscure, as pho (pronounced "fuh"). My addiction to the steaming bowl of Vietnamese soup borders obsessive compulsive. Back East I had to drive out to a traffic-ridden Vietnamese neighborhood and sit cafeteria style under fluorescent lighting, shoulder-to-shoulder with a grouchy, elderly matriarch who didn't understand why I was there.
In Los Angeles however, pho is celebrated and so is the funny name. Indeed, pho sounds like the "f" word minus the "k." What the Pho in Koreatown is frequented by both families and thug wannabes in high school. Absolutely Phobulous caters to gay West Hollywood and sophisticated foodies in the hills, and Pho Sho serves the Culver City studio crowd. New restaurants are popping up everywhere, and finally I can have my own table, upgrade to track lighting and still enjoy the lemony, spicy, basil-filled noodle soup.

It's only a matter of time until we see a Viet-Italian fusion bistro called, "Phoggetaboutit."


Surviving Runyon Canyon

I love hiking in Los Angeles. The coyote howls at sunset when the canyon temperature drops a refreshing 10 degrees, the ocean views and the thrill of knowing a rattlesnake could be sunning around the bend are but a few of the many perks. The mountains surrounding us are Mother Nature’s big “Screw you!” to the hideous strip mall sprawl that showcase our modern failures in architecture. One may think that hiking boots and a water bottle are adequate preparation for hiking in a hot, rugged canyon. Oh no, my friends. To survive Runyon Canyon, you need not only need style, but doggie style.


* While purebreds were once all the rage, once must find other ways to pretend they’re loaded. The new leash candy are mutts and rescues, as men have discovered it makes them look sensitive and gets them laid.

* The ultimate leash candy? Dogs with deformities! It’s all the rage. Try and score a 3-legged dog, one that’s missing an eye or has an extra digit in their paw.

* Any form of skin disease is NOT a hot deformity. Think underdog, not dirty dog.


* No stained clothing or torn clothing, unless crafted to expose bare midriff or toned arms.

* Matching clothes only - not throwaways that belong in the pajama drawer.

* All men, especially gay men, must take off their shirts if they have a four pack or higher, unless thwarted by excess back hair.

* If going for preppy chic, ensure the leash matches the outfit.

* If going for Playboy chic, not only do you cut your shirt for midriff exposure, but cut a plunging neckline to expose your expensive breasts. Extra credit for orange glow skin!

* If going for rocker chic, colored bandanas are best for your hair, and don’t forget the shades and too-tight jeans that are not at all appropriate for hiking.


* To fit in, one must speak obnoxiously loud when discussing any entertainment industry successes and celebrity run-ins. Must act blasé about celebrity encounters.

* To fit in, speak loudly about crazy and dysfunctional relationships And keep your voice up, it’s encouraged by all. Passing strangers eat up this form of entertainment.

* Act as if you are not out of breath while approaching the summit, as people can smell weakness.

* The most ridiculously priced bottled water will make you look cooler. Ditch the Arrowhead for Smart Water.

Enjoy your hike!


Better Than The Best of L.A. Weekly

LA Weekly's "Best of" issue was unleashed last weekend - an event I look forward to every year. I devour page after page with a hot cup of coffee and a pair of scissors. When I first moved here from the East Coast, I clung to the "Best of" issue to try and pick up the vibe of Los Angeles. The following two years I studied each entry and wrote down addresses, determined to make myself like this place. These days, I use it to explore and uncover. And now that I know this town, I can see where the entries are lacking.

For instance, the "Best View from Money" piece urges people to see the Los Angeles skyline from a spot in the swanky hills of La Canada. But the price of gas combined with an addiction to T.V. can hardly pull people off the couch these days. Make it worth the trip and stop at DISH on Foothill Boulevard in La Canada. Inside there are roaring fireplaces, hardwood floors and gorgeous vintage woodwork. When you settle into the dining room, look up at the old bones, painted white and looking like a Hamptons throwback. And the food - oh, the food. The juicy hangar steaks, crisp salads topped with goat cheese and fresh sliced fruit, the tangy apple chutney on sizzling pork chops and the warm chocolate bread pudding a la mode are to die for.
Everything is painstakingly homemade and the warmth exuding from the place stays with you as you drive downhill, back to the smoggy, congested flatlands.

Some Angelenos may fear dining more than six miles off the Sunset strip, as it may disrupt their carefully-crafted idea of cool. Allow me to draw some comparisons. On the strip, girls who have come to the sad realization that they'll never be smart enough to be rich on their own, (or not smart enough to realize they can), squeeze their wares into shiny tube tops and haunt the bars looking for people with money. For those who have seen the rolling green estates of La Canada, you would know that the place is moneyed, and not peppered with UCLA frat boys. The men at DISH go for Hefewiesen, not Heineken, and nobody would ever yell the formidable, "Whooh!"

On Sunset, people gain a slight sense of achievement looking down at the glittering lights of Los Angeles from the heights of the strip. Especially when gripping an overpriced cocktail after standing in line for an hour to get in. The view from La Canada? Higher. We're talking a few exits away from the Mt. Wilson Observatory, which makes Griffith Park look like a high school planetarium. Here's their link: http://www.dishbreakfastlunchanddinner.com/

I'm inspired now, and feel morally obligated to do my own "Best of" blogs when the event arises. In the meantime, put down the remote, get in your car and start exploring. Here's LA Weekly's link: http://www.laweekly.com/bestOf


California Cuisine

This "California cuisine" thing is really something. Despite various attempts to define it, the whole thing remains elusive. Every other cuisine I know can be defined by their spices and method of cooking, such as Indian cuisine, known for spicy curries with meat and breads cooked in a tandoori.

So I do research, and the definition is as pretentious as the restaurants who claim to serve it. Jeremiah Tower is credited for bringing the unique and "stacked" presentation to California. So...if I neatly stack pita bread, grape leaves and hummus into a cool-looking tower, it goes from Mediterranean to Californian? Wolfgang Puck is credited on Wikipedia's "California cuisine" page for opening Spago and being a celebrity chef, but brings nothing to the table as far as unique dishes. Perhaps some are hoping that the word "celebrity" will be the magic word to justify everything, as it does for trainers and stylists on makeover T.V. shows.

Then there's "fusion" - something California is known for. While Asian fusion is the most popular version, (putting soy sauce and sliced scallions in a ramekin where ketchup should be), one cannot borrow from another cuisine, force it into an American dish and claim it as it’s own.

Celebrity chefs and tiny towers of food don't make up for unique spices, marinades and cooking techniques. The truth is a lot less glamorous. California cuisine really entails taking a salad or sandwich (already perfected by another region) and shoving in a helping of alfalfa sprouts and avocado.


Love and Gangstas

In Los Angeles, some husbands show their love by buying their wives new boobs. In exchange, the wives express their gratitute by sticking with a regiment that will make them forever the "trophy wife." They make a silent promise to always ensure that their bodies stay so small, that the breasts remain the bulging and sometimes ill-proportioned edifice to their presentation.

If you have considerably less money and can naturally fill out a bra, one must be more creative when expressing their feelings. My husband and I fall into this category. But no weekend trip to Hearst Castle or dinner at Katsuya could equal the expression of love that I showed for my husband one night when a gangsta came to town.

I don't know where they came from. We were quietly lounging in the house when we heard noises outside. Pulling the curtains back, we saw a thug-like Latino in standard uniform - oversized white tee, baggy black jeans and shaved head. He was following a frightened girl pushing a stroller down the sidewalk, (he was presumably the father). He yelled, he pushed and even though it was dark, we think we heard him hitting her. She pleaded and shielded her head, screaming, "The baby!" I gasped and ran to the phone to call 911. My husband wasn't about to wait for the cops, and without a moment's hesitation, he marched straight to the abuser.

Readers, keep in mind that my husband is lanky, non-althetic and was approaching a burly, thick-necked idiot who was prone to violence. As I watched him go, my mind raced. "Wow, he's so admirable," I thought, "It's a shame he's going to die." Then I had a moment of clarity. "I love this man and if he's going down, I'm going with him." Chest out (non-silicon), chin up and determined, I marched right behind him, ready to take whatever was coming. Now that is love.

All those in LaLa Land who can't afford plastic parts or the "stay skinny" team of experts devoted to making sure those plastic parts bulge from an emaciated body, still have a chance to demonstrate their devotion. Gangs are everywhere, and you can make every day Valentine's Day. If you don't die first.


Um, Like, the Valley

In Sex and the City, when Carrie Bradshaw says she read “Brooklyn is the new Manhattan,” Miranda retorted, “Whoever wrote that lives in Brooklyn.”

If I lived within the 323 or 310 area code, my defense of the 818 would have more credibility. But since I'm an East Coast native, I'm hoping my two cents will be considered nonpartisan. Prior to my move to Los Angeles, there were mixed messages regarding the San Fernando Valley. On the one hand, strangers within earshot chuckled at Richard E. Grant’s character in L.A. Story after overhearing him say he lived in the valley. At the same time, the 80’s classic film Valley Girl gave us the idea it was a green oasis, jelly bracelet heaven. Privileged teens would throw decadent house parties, go on shopping sprees at giant pastel malls and lounge poolside. After all, I was a child of the 80’s, picking up the hot valley girl verbiage. “Totally tubular” and “Like, gag me!” were classic American phrases coined here, and were so popular, I had collected stickers with these phrases.

So which was it? After moving here, my peers immediately got to work to ensure the 818 stigma was firmly cemented in my psyche. I took up residence in the 323, where I thrived for years. But then an opportunity came that I couldn’t turn down. A writer friend was moving to New York and wanted to know if I’d like to move into his house. HOUSE – not apartment. A beautiful cabin just off Laurel Canyon with an expansive yard. It was the Garden of Eden with a fig tree, lemon tree, apple tree, roses, jasmine, etc. The only catch? It was in Studio City.

I took it, I love it and I realized I didn’t need to be in the middle of everything to feel I was a part of it. In fact, I can’t even enjoy the feeling of escape with paparazzi camping out at the local CVS to catch a glimpse of Britney Spears, or William Shatner’s Dobermans going ballistic on me when I take my dog for a walk. So what exactly is the “middle of everything”? An apartment across from Koi, where we may catch a glimpse of Cameron Diaz awaiting the valet to pull up in her famed Prius?

I love the bistros and boutiques lining Ventura Boulevard, I love the leafy adjoining neighborhoods and I don’t feel the need to convince anyone that Studio City is the new…the new…what even? Beverly Hills is considered more of a geriatric respite than the sheen of Aaron Spellings’ 90210, and while Silverlake is hipster heaven, it’s still segregated and dangerous at night.

I lived in Hollywood, and hookers would pass out on my side porch. I lived in West Hollywood and someone stole my bike and robbed our neighbors on the first floor. And while I’ll readily admit that parts of the valley are ugly, can it be any worse than certain ragged stretches of Pico Boulevard that lead to our beloved Pacific Ocean?


Crazy Dog Park People

Some people have the luxury of slipping in and out of dog parks anonymously, having experienced the sole pleasure of watching their dog kick it National Geographic style.

Some people aren't afforded that luxury, say owners of Great Danes and St. Bernards, whom always draw curious onlookers with questions. Not only do I own a brindle (tiger-striped) ex-racing greyound complete with tattoos in her ears, she makes a dash for every human she sees and leans her weight on them, ingratiating herself. Then follows the polite nods, the questions about her shady past and so forth.

I'm not complaining, but need to point out that these social formalities would be much more pleasurable were mental illness less prevalent at dog parks. What is going on with these people? There's the famous Mulholland Dog Park woman who stretches across the picnic tables languidly, drawing slowly on her cigarette and trawling for men amidst a sea of dog poop. Her set-up is nearly flawless, say for the Clorox wipes at her side. Anti-bacterial wipes are one thing, but bleach?

I visited the football field-sized dog park in Encino, as it was rated "Best Of" in Los Angeles. I'm a sucker for any "Best Of" - at least once. Well, the park is divided into two, one gated area is labeled "Timid," the other, "Macho." I thought the "Macho" title was cool; I like picking up on insider lingo, much like people do when ordering off the secret menu at In-N-Out. During my first visit, I asked a seemingly normal woman if this were the "Macho" field, and she scoffed defensively, "Well my dog is not macho." Reader, beware of any person who always emphasizes the "my" in "my dog." I let her know that it was insider lingo and she scoffed uncomfortably, clutching her canine and arguing, "Well, me and my dog have been coming here every day for years and I've never heard anyone call it macho." Laughing, I told her it was just a figure of speech, and she stormed off. Was she mad at me? I wondered if she never heard "macho" because no one had ever spoken to her. Naturally, I kept a curious eye on her and noticed she conversed with no one and stood with pursed lips, following her dog's every move.

The "my dog" people can never admit that their dog has faults or that there is something manic in their believing they can convince the world their pet is perfect. Every single dog in this world can be duped into doing something hilarious at our expense, where we can rightfully shake our heads and say, "stupid animal."

The last time I visited the Encino Dog Park, I saw a girl with buff, Madonna-like arms.
"Do you do yoga?" I asked.
"I used to."
"What do you do now, lift cars?"
"No, I box. I pound the sh*$! out of boxing bags because I have a lot of rage inside of me."

I take two steps back and ask, "What happens when you're not angry anymore?""Oh, I will ALWAYS be angry! As long as animals are being killed and tortured so we can wear FURS and eat BURGERS I will continue to-"

This went on for a while. I think I started to tune out when she was screaming about the Olympics being held in a communist country, but that's only because I saw her arm veins bulging and could not stop staring. Of course, my dog rubbed against her adoringly the entire time. Stupid animal.

I don't know if it's the methane from dog poop that is turning these people into serious contenders for reality T.V., but we should experiment. I say everyone should do their duty and start picking up the poop, just in case.


The Soup

You can always tell how successful a show is by it's audience members. Not the national sitcoms filled by tourists, but the smaller, invite-only shows. Take for instance The Soup on E! A couple of years ago, a quick phone call could slip you into a Thursday night taping. A few rows of metal chairs would await you and you sat back with shaggy-haired basement dwellers in flip flops and shorts. Inside jokes abounded and everyone sat back for a quick, hilarious taping.

A few months ago, a friend and I tried to snag seats for a show only to be told it was booked for a month in advance. An entire month? What had happened? Did everyone suddenly catch on to the wonder that is Joel McHale? Shame on them for taking so long. I don't even watch television and I acknowledged long ago that he is a near perfect human.

And then the day of the show arrived. As usual, I showed up in flip flops (I walk there) and a ponytail only to be dwarfed by girls in pumps and bubble dresses. They eyed one another tensely and swooped the hair off their shoulders in dramatic flips. In the bathroom as I washed my hands, I could hear the clicking heels of an approaching girl. I smiled and said "Hi" to her through the mirror as soon as we made eye contact. She nervously turned her head and pretended it didn't happen as if I were the poster child for the Ebola virus. Was that necessary? Perhaps she couldn't see me through the inch-thick pancake make-up that must have been labeled "Orange Peel" in the department store, but I'm pretty sure she saw me.

When we were let in to the studio, there were twice as many rows of metal chairs; the first two being roped off with "Reserved" signs. The E! lawyer always sits in the front row to ensure nothing is said that could be held against them, but now he was flanked by Joel's buff stylist, sitting anxiously to ensure Joel's tie doesn't twist. High school girls made seductive faces into their compact mirrors, out-of-towners sat excitedly and breasts were pushed high to the collarbones.

The shaggy-haired basement dwellers were disappearing, the easy production-type guys who all seem to smoke a joint before entering were gone and I wondered, is this the sign of success? Joel was charming, the footage and writing hilarious and I still had a good time. I applaud The Soup for their growing success, but how can a show that laughs at vapid people who take themselves too seriously suddenly appeal to vapid people who themselves take themselves too seriously? Oh the irony.


L.A. Story

It's easy to fall into the trap of berating Los Angeles, especially as an East Coaster. We tend to band together at parties and bars, declaring our intellectual superiority and point out all things laughable. And it's not like this town makes us hard up for material. Orange-hued girls in sequined mini dresses and plastic grapefruit-shaped breasts sit vacantly beside married men in power. Diners spend obscene amounts of money on raw food, because it's de rigueur and they saw the chef on The Food Network. They pay no mind to the fact that 3 oz. of what is essentially julienne vegetables cost as much as a car payment.

At the same time, there is much to love about this place. And there's something to be said about that simple quote, "If you don't like it, leave." Sure, people in the entertainment industry will give the standard defense, "I have to be here," to which there is the standard retort, "There's always New York." There are some instances where New York is not an option, say for writers of a television show that shoots in Los Angeles. In that case, we must remind them once again that leaving is still an option.

Not that this blog will be solely dedicated to praising Los Angeles. I feel almost morally obligated to call things out that strike me as shady. But that doesn't mean I can't acknowledge the perfect weather, deep green canyons and Mexican food that gets your tongue wagging.

These mixed feelings conjure up memories from the amazing film L.A. Story, when Sara (played by Victoria Tennant) says, "Roland thinks L.A. is a place for the brain-dead. He says, if you turned off the sprinklers, it would turn into a desert. But I think - I don't know, it's not what I expected. It's a place where they've taken a desert and turned it into their dreams."

And who can argue that?


And People Care About This Because?..

So here I am. I'm ignoring the pesky voice in my head, taunting, "And people care about this because?..." I fill out my profile and the voice gets louder, "No one caaaaares.." I save changes and it jabs me with a final, "Who do you think you are?"

Well that one I can answer. I'm Fayeruz Regan and I'm a writer. I get published here and there, but now that I want to get my manuscript published, I must scoot out of the corners of coffee shops and learn the business. Get my name out there and market. I'm here to meet new people, read posts from other literati and make a blog worth reading.

Traumatized by the sight of blogs where young wives write epics on their husband's ability to install windows or self-aggrandizing teens who call themselves "princessses" and complain, complain, complain - I wish to ensure I will forever keep myself in check. And if I don't, I'm sure someone will let me know.