I just landed in LA a few hours ago. I'm shacking up for a few days in a hotel room with my friend, journalist Nancy Rommelmann. On the flight over from London, I re-read Nancy's hilarious memoir (not online), much of which is all about the years during which she dwelled in this beautiful, wretched town. She left LA, eventually, despite what some people predicted:

The things I disliked about LA--the constant idiotic sunshine, the appearance people like to give that nothing matters--became tolerable. Ten years ago, I worked for an insane, old-school screenwriter who, every time I said I was leaving, smirked and insisted, "Everyone says that, but no one ever does." I did not want to believe him; how could a man who wore captain's caps and chewed with his mouth open and screamed at me at the Farmer's Market when I misquoted the box office on "Thelma & Louise" be right about my life?

Well, that dude was wrong: She's been gone for more than a year. If you're the reading type, check out Nancy's story about meeting serial killer John Wayne Gacy on death row, the Bruce Willis exposé that had Marty Singer hurling legal threats all over the place, and the story of a Hollywood welfare motel and the people who call it home.

I am actually thrilled to be back in LA. I love this place. Nancy, who loves it not so much, announced upon arrival at the hotel: "Dammit, it's like I never left!" Can you ever really get this place out of your system? Secretly, for my sake, I hope not. For the millions who come here with big hopes and dreams and leave with nothing but broken lives and what-might-have-beens, I hope so.