The Foreign Embassy

The missus and I were in Chicago this past weekend for a wedding, where we got to see a number of friends we hadn't in far too long. And invariably, the question would come up, in various forms: "How do you like L.A.?" (Other forms: "How's L.A.?" "Are you liking L.A.?" "L.A.? Thumbs up or down?" etc. You get the picture.)

The "adult" friends (the ones I didn't know that well, who haven't seen me in my boxers at three in the morning) got what has gradually, through much practice, become the nonthreatening answer: "It's...good." (That ellipse, that moment of hesitation before the "good," is crucially important to maintain self-respect and honesty). Then, the twist of the knife: "Can't beat the weather."

Here, in fact, is the threatening and hostilely direct answer: I hate L.A. And yes, you CAN beat the weather, with a big fat stick. But more on that later.

Having travelled literally around the world, and spent a fair amount of time in over a dozen countries and four continents, I can honestly say I've never encountered more annoying locals in my life. And yes, I've been to France. Angelinos (as they like to call themselves, which pretty much sums it up, as far as I'm concerned) are not only mind-shatteringly annoying, but they PRIDE themselves on being mind-shatteringly annoying. They love it. They get off on it. They, in fact, look for ways to be MORE annoying. Some of the gems they've discovered to date:

• Talking on their cell phones as loudly as possible in public. Not because they're deaf, but because they want to be heard. By YOU.

• Talking on their cell phones while driving. Yes, I know people do this everywhere. But as Angelinos are the worst drivers in the motorized world, ANYTHING they do while driving becomes automatically more annoying, because it increases the risk of death of everyone else in a hundred-foot radius by a factor of ten. And death is annoying.

• Talking on their cell phones while driving in an erratic approximation of a sin curve at 57 miles per hour in the fast lane. I encounter at least two of these a DAY. I wish hot death on these people.

• Everything else. There's too much to list. The easiest thing to do would be to digitally record an Angelino for an hour and post it here. But I don't have a video camera and would chew off one of my testicles before willingly spending an hour with an Angelino, so you'll have to take it on faith that these people are literally the most annoying people on Earth.

A story: the missus and I went to U2's opening show in Los Angeles the other month, and after a couple numbers, Bono launched into the obligatory "Hello, Milwaukee!!!" part of the show, where the performer warmly praises the locale in which the venue is situated to rousing cheers from the locale's inhabitants. Bono's halfhearted attempt: "The thing I like most about Los Angeles..." (note the telltale ellipse) "...is that...people here live on their imaginations." I thought he was going to say, "The hot dogs at Pink's," but he surprised me. Then he launched into "Sunday Bloody Sunday" before someone could ask him to elaborate.

The next night, Bono was accosted in mid-performance by an aspiring stripper with breast implants who literally chased him halfway around the stage before she was snatched by security, and who presumably DOESN'T live on her imagination, but on the manufactured twins that were doing their best to break free of her sequined belly shirt. The Angelino, after being ejected from the show, told onlookers that it was the best moment of her life. I'm not making this up.

On his next Los Angeles leg of the tour, Bono's "Hello, Milwaukee!!!" moment will most likely consist of Bono giving praise to the city's proliferance of large but sprightly bouncers.

When I discussed the Attack of the Three-Headed Stripper with Angelinos, they would invariably smile, shake their heads, and say with a chuckle something along the lines of, "Only in L.A." In much the manner the mother sitting at the table next to yours in the restuarant would chuckle and say, "Kids," after her bratty six-year-old just dumped his water glass on your head and ran off to play in the restuarant's pizza oven.

Los Angeles is that monstrous, semi-retarded child. Angelinos are the clueless mother who publicly thinks her child's abhorrent behavior is "precious" and secretly, in her heart of hearts, hopes the chef doesn't notice there's something else in the oven when he throws in a pizza and slams the door.

Okay, that's a bit dark. But I just don't like L.A.

I wanted to. I actually thought I would. The only previous encounter with L.A. that sticks out in my mind is a layover in LAX, on my way to Sydney, in which I walked out to the edge of the terminal and stood by the side of the road circling around the airport and stared, fascinated and filled with awe, at the lights of the sprawling city. It was beautiful, and I knew I'd be back sooner or later.

Now, later, I still like looking at the lights, but I've learned that that first impression of L.A. was, for me, it's only appeal: it's great to look at from a distance, but living among those lights is something else entirely.

Don't get me wrong: there are advantages. I work three blocks from the beach. I live in a beautiful house that I love. I work at a special effects company, something I've dreamed of doing since I saw STAR WARS. There are perks.

You'll notice I'm not mentioning the weather. That's because everything you think you know about Los Angeles weather is wrong. It's a lie: it's NOT seventy-five-and-sunny year-round. It DOES rain. Hell, it rained for three months straight this year. It DOES get humid in the summer. It's been grey and overcast for the last two weeks. And there's no snow, and there's no Fall, and without the markers of time that distinct seasonal changes provide, the months all just blend in together, and next thing you know a year's gone by. I spent thirty years marking time by those changes, and their absence throws me off.

Ah, well. I'm just being cranky. Writing's been a little tough as of late, and it's put me in a glass-half-empty mode. These things shall pass, probably the next time I'm riding my bike along Venice Beach in the morning, and I'll once again get hit by the thought, "Gee, this ain't so bad." And then I'll go home to my lovely wife at the end of the day, and all will be right with the world.