My Town Rocks: Los Angeles, California

Oh sure, you all are ready to condemn my town. Frankly, I don't blame you. Los Angeles is home to the biggest bandwagon sports fans in the country. Bar none.

We have had two professional football teams—the Los Angeles Rams and the Los Angeles Raiders. One owner allegedly drowned her husband to escape to the cozy confines of St. Louis, and the other decided Oakland had a better fanbase.

USC doesn't count as a professional football team yet—let's wait and see what the NCAA decides. UCLA is a basketball school. Don't let their hot cheerleaders fool ya.

The NBA fans here are as fickle as Lindsay Lohan's pledge of life-long sobriety.

The Lakers are the hottest ticket in town—during the second and third quarters only, of course.

The fans don't make it to the first quarter and leave in the fourth to A) let Fifi take a break from her Louis Vuitton pet carrier, B) call their agent, or C) to escape traffic. Yeah, it's bad when you worry about traffic at 10 PM at night.

The Clippers are treated like a redheaded stepchild, unless they are winning. Two years ago, Billy Crystal looked like a freaking genius when his years of Clippers' loyalty finally paid off. The entire city was suddenly transformed into a Clippers fanbase. Then they lost. Now you could hear a pin drop when the games start. Jack is King, once again.

Our model citizens are Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, every left-wing nut job, OJ (luckily, he moved to Florida, where all good felons go to avoid having their property seized by our bankrupt state), Charlie Sheen (and black books), Britney Spears, Heidi Fleiss, Michael Milken, Name-any-Broadcom-thug, sports agents, and let's not forget the population of San Fernando Valley, which is the porn capitol of the world. Ron Jeremy for Mayor!

We have elected two actors to office, and wonder why everyone thinks we are nuts.

We are the bank-robbery capitol of the world (one every fifteen seconds), and cheer on low-speed freeway chases by taking time off work to make banners to hang over freeway overpasses.

Our police department is more corrupt than the Medellin Cartel.

We are complete weather wimps. If it drizzles, there are 500 accidents on the freeways and the news channels' opening breaking story is "Stormwatch 2008." The entire Southland is in a state of chaos because no one owns an umbrella, raincoat, or operational windshield wipers (cracked/dried out due to sunny weather) on their $115,000 leased Mercedes (nothing down, and $1,700 a month car payments).

We have the highest foreclosure rates, the biggest credit-card debt, but dammit, don't our fake boobs look perky?

We spend close to five bucks a gallon for gas, and then we complain to the Shell attendant while filling up our 26-gallon tank Suburbans.

We live in a sunshine-filled state, yet wear over sized sunglasses to make our cheeks look more prominent and our bodies smaller, and flock to the tanning salons to get that California glow. Our teeth have been known to blind on-coming traffic when we smile.

We are home to the Los Angeles Kings, but ever since Gretzky left, only the gang bangers wear Kings' jerseys. The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, well, doesn't the name really say it all? Total identity crisis. It's baseball on heroin.

The Dodgers play at Chavez Ravine, so at least its name reflects the proud (and growing ten-fold every day) Hispanic heritage.

Yes, it's true...you must speak Spanish to live here, and frankly, it keeps us busy guessing what the meanings of street signs are while we sit in coughing smog and grid-lock.

Cost to live in Paradise?

A half-mil gets you a three-bedroom shack with no backyard, a garage, massive debt, mudslides, earthquakes, wildfires, locust invasions, pestilence, and someday, a permanent ocean view—all 360 degrees, according to geologists.

 Just ask Dr. Lucy, our local geologist from Cal Tech. She's the one person in this state with job security, and everyone knows her name.

Yep, my town rocks so hard it rolls every ten years. Jealous?