Dear, Well, LA:

Los Angeles, occasionally, you can surprise. Charm. Delight, even. I just can't imagine the denizens of St. Louis or Omaha or Tucson mustering up the unique blend of awe/trepidation/warm fuzzies/frustration that LA can induce on any given day. With your overwhelming geographical variegation (not to mention the large protuberance of a mountain range in your center), hugely diverse populous of Hollywood douchebags, east side Armenian drug dealers, westside Beverly Hills science projects, poseurs, queers, and Angelyne, you can certainly have your moments.

Precipitously perched on the ocean, on the brink of structure, order, decency - all easily wiped clean with one earthquake, one accident on the 405 - the individual reigns; an Ayn Rand-tastic self-interested narcissism easily triumphing over any kind of collective impetus. Never was there a city whose narrative was so singularly focused around one mass-mythic history, such uniformity of aspiration, to the point of representing an extremely universal ideal - so easily summed up by merely glancing upwards and seeing the Hollywood sign in its nestle, its siren call easily international, if not, by this point, intergalactic.

Why this rhapsodizing, you ask? Who can say. Resignation. Adaptation. Perhaps even contentment. Or possibly, quite simply, the fact that there's been nothing to crab about of late. What unexpected enlightenment.

But, I'm sure it'll just be a matter of time.

Sincerely,
Dear Crabby