What can I say about Her City of Angels? That it's a plentiful paradise met with a socially-aware Hell? That the surplus of aimless dreamers just destined to plaster their brand have to contend with the thousands of earnest blue-collards just looking to make a mark on their own love's behind after feeding the kids with putrid day jobs? That a shining star on every street from Magnolia in Burbank to Lincoln in Santa Monica means as much as any promise made of success in entertainment? That, in some bizarre instance, bumbling throuh every late-night gastropub, discotech and all-American diner, you're bound to run into "the one?" (Provided her newest iPhone is at such a low percentage, it's not even worth swiping through dating apps and thirst traps?) Well, how about this… Instead of devastating you with flakey intrigue and novelty, I can just list the listless ways that I've come to revel within the atmospheric mood that this city best resembles the best parts of my small-town home, without making me too concentratedly "horny and neurotic?" Also, when I say "I like how," never in this context is it meant in the ironic sense. Rather, I'm genuine and daresay nostalgic with many of the ways I'll remember the environment we live in as I lay dying on my deathbed of a back. I like how for every terribly-overpriced In-N-Out and El Pollo Loco, there's a rationally heralded Tommy's or Del Taco, reminding you how it's more weird to not starve something fierce at one in the morning. I like how upon every waking vision of peace, there's an ambulance or fire truck giving you a head's up on the soon-to-follow policeman, too foolhardy to indicate resistance against your indica. I like how though the Factory and the Improv lack the hang-out factor that the World Famous Comedy Store retains, it's there in the barren streets that may be best to guide your way home lest the West-coast Sun peels West Hollywood's spray tan wide open. I like how virtually every Metro Bus driver will shake their head at your lack of funds in your TAP card but they'll let you on this one time and this one time only. Thus, confirming my own personal belief that no two 780s are the exact same. I like how such famed LA attractions such as La Brea's pits or the Watts Towers are nearly as big a deal as the new dispensary Miley Cyrus opened. I like how the variety of friends you're likely to cycle through, month after month, keep you busy between your running of avocado toast to table 7 and getting paid to react as an audience member in the most electric of ways. Hiking through Runyon, tacos outside UCB Sunset, walking past Echo Park's Lake, shopping through Fairfax, picnicking in Sylmar, skating in Venice, swerving through Topanga, watching the Sun fare Matador Beach well and cracking jokes outside a garage in Koreatown before the customary Winchell's chipotle bagel meal deal. But to put it cornily enough in this cornucopia of memories, what I love about Los Angeles the most is how no matter where I am, be it Reseda Park or Kenneth Hahn, the slums of Skid Row or the top of the W, the window of my home in Glendale on a rainy day or my ex-girlfriend's beloved driveway overlooking La Cienaga on the 4th of July, there's always some view of this sprawling population that makes me feel like it'd be good to be born here, great to live here and absolutely amazing to die here. (Controversial as that may be with the fires and all.) I was born in Westlake Village. So that's a start. My advice? Love this place as much as it tolerates you.