There are three great cities in the United States: there's Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York – in that order.

I love Boston; I even love Denver; I like Miami; I think Washington DC is habitable; but Los Angeles is Los Angeles. You can't compare it to Paris, or to London, or to Rome, or to Shanghai. You can interestingly contrast it to those cities, sure, and Los Angeles even comes out lacking; but Los Angeles is still Los Angeles.

No matter what you do in L.A., your behavior is appropriate for the city. Los Angeles has no assumed correct mode of use. You can have fake breasts and drive a Ford Mustang – or you can grow a beard, weigh 300 pounds, and read Christian science fiction novels. Either way, you're fine: that's just how it works. You can watch Cops all day or you can be a porn star or you can be a Caltech physicist. You can listen to Carcass – or you can listen to Pat Robertson. Or both.

L.A. is the apocalypse: it's you and a bunch of parking lots. No one's going to save you; no one's looking out for you. It's the only city I know where that's the explicit premise of living there – that's the deal you make when you move to L.A.

The city, ironically, is emotionally authentic.

It says: no one loves you; you're the least important person in the room; get over it.

What matters is what you do there.

Now seems like a good time to offer some quotes from Swingers:

Mike: What the fuck are you carrying a gun for? What, in case somebody steps to you, Snoop Dogg?
Sue: Hey man, you're not from here, alright. You don't know how it is. I grew up in L.A.
Trent: Anaheim.
Sue: Whatever, man. It's different out here.

And this one, a bit longer, from the script:

                             MIKE
                        (indicating the ladies)
                   I'm going in.  Will you be my wing-man?

                             ROB
                   I'll be your winger.

        They make the approach.  With a great deal of effort, Mike
        catches their attention...

                             MIKE
                   Good evening, ladies...

        ... only to be interrupted by the party STOPPING to check
        another entrance.

        Beat.

        The party RESUMES and the blondes redirect their attention to
        Mike.  He is a little put-off but, God love him, he gets back
        in there.

                             MIKE
                   How are you ladies doing this evening?

                             BLONDE
                   What do you drive?

                             MIKE
                   I'm sorry?

                             BLONDE
                   What kind of car do you drive?

                             MIKE
                   Oh... a Cavalier.

        The blondes immediately enter back into their conversation as
        if they were never approached.

        Mike and Rob exchange defeated glances.

        One more try.

                             MIKE
                   ... It's red?

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