When I was here in early May, looking for an apartment, Rick and I stopped at the 7-11 around the corner from our new place. A white stretch limo pulled up beside us. In the back, a slender African-American woman smoked a cigarette out the window while the driver went in to buy something from the store.

Wanna-be star? Actual star? (We're close to Sony Pictures; it's possible) Delusional trust fund baby? Whatever, we'd just had our first L.A. Moment.

Now that I've been here for a few weeks, I suspect that whatever demographic she actually belonged to, she went to the 7-11 in a limo because she's one of the many people in L.A. who feel like they're living in a movie, and act accordingly, trying to create a good scene. It already feels like a movie set because of the familiar street and neighborhood names. Lots of songs are about California -- there's your soundtrack. The weather forecast says 76 and sunny for the next week -- where's Steve Martin throwing little suns up on the weather map? The whole L.A. myth is surreal and overwhelming, and I can already see how locals get sucked into it. That must be why everyone calls it LaLaLand.

I went to my first west coast TV taping on Friday night, the 12th episode of the Orlando Jones Show. I liked seeing the behind-the-scenes psychology of it all: a stand-up comic to rile up the crowd; a DJ who doesn't do much on the show but is crucial for keeping everyone in a good mood between takes; the comic acting as a human Applause sign ("C'mon, lots of energy now!"); a staffer whose job was to make sure the audience members in the high-profile/more-airtime seats were a certain demographic mix and a proper SoCal level of physical attractiveness.

What really made it an L.A. Moment, though, is the sheer number of audience members who treated the pre-show time and commercial breaks like their own personal American Idol. They wanted to sing or rap for us (really for Orlando Jones, his producer and DJ, and whoever else might have been watching). No surprise there, but the audience wranglers like the stand-up comic *let them.* The third rapper, during his freestyling, called out the first rapper. During the next commercial break, this escalated into a rap battle.

Now, did these guys grow up in a neighborhood where rap battles were part of the culture, or have they just seen it in the movies? I have no idea. But I bet they felt like movie stars just then -- they were even on a set, and there was their co-star Orlando Jones grooving off in the corner.

As I write this, my CD player just served up the Propellerheads' "Take California." That's what I'm talking about.

The screenwriters are messing with me.

Look, if I'm really in a movie, let me help you script the part where I win the lottery. I know I've been telling everyone I'm not a screenwriter, but just this once, I'm willing to make an exception.

Just for shits 'n' giggles, I took a look at Boston.com to see what's news in my former hometown today.

The entire first screen: frickin' Whitey, and the Red Sox.

Oh, how I will *not* miss Boston's favorite news topics.

(First screen of LATimes.com: Al Qaeda, California reading scores, Iraq, Israel, the economy, Martha Stewart, Kuwait, North Korea. The rest of the world, and a local story of actual importance. And Martha. Can't have everything.)

A friend of mine in San Francisco pointed out that visiting L.A. is always amusing because you feel like you know the place -- street names, if nothing else -- from movies and TV. True enough, I had a job interview yesterday on Melrose Ave. Next week's dentist appointment is on Venice. Back in May, I looked at a reasonably-priced apartment on Santa Monica Boulevard.

None of this is remotely glamorous, by the way. It seems to be a well-kept secret that life in L.A. can be as mundane as in any other city. Some newcomers may find this a letdown. On the contrary, I find it nothing short of spectacular that Hollywood, when you get there, just seems like a nice place to go window-shopping and have a beer. I take a perverse pleasure in the fact that my neighborhood -- exotically-named "Palms" -- is essentially an urban bedroom community (though it does have palm trees). Much like the imagine-your-audience-naked trick of public speaking, L.A. being full of working people, screaming toddlers, and teenagers hanging out in parking lots just makes the experience that much less intimidating.

But if you want to think I'm living a star-studded, bling-bling life, go right ahead.

Michael Palin has the best damn job in the world -- collecting royalties from youthful lunacy while traveling the world on the BBC's dime, on "business," including opportunities to go where tourists aren't allowed. I do wish he'd take his wife with him one of these days. Travel documentary producers, if you're looking for a couple to send around the world on an expense account, Rick and I are raising our hands.

But my new hero, at least in the Whack-Ass British Travel Documentary category, is professor/geographer/writer Nick Middleton. I caught half of his series "Going to Extremes" last night -- Cold and Dry. The concept is that the British are always whinging about their moderate climate, so ol' Nick went off to find weather conditions really worth bitching about. I've now seen this unassuming middle-aged academic go for a swim in Siberia in -30ish weather (Celsius, Farenheit, take your pick...do the math and you'll see it doesn't matter anymore at that point), eat reindeer tripe, march through the desert with Chilean commandos and just 1 liter of water, and happily drink his own pee. I really wish I'd seen this while I was bundled up in my ill-heated apartment during the Endless Winter 2003 Tour. What's seeing your breath in your home office compared to living in permafrost so impenetrable it takes two days just to bury someone?

On other weather-related notes (yawn) I find that, given identical moderately-chilly temperatures (say, in the 60s Farenheit) I'm less likely to put on a long-sleeved shirt or even long pants in southern California than I am in New England. I think I am dually trying to keep from getting soft and hoping to cultivate a reputation as a hard-ass from back east who feels no cold.

And they really do say "back east" here, as well as "right on" and "dude." Laugh all you want. It beats Siberia.

Putting one word after another doesn't make you a writer any more than putting one foot in front of the other makes you a dancer.

***

I was thinking about signing up for AmeriCorps, the so-called "domestic peace corps" that employs do-gooders at charity work for year-long stints. That was until I called and was told the yearly salary was about $10,000. I guess if I was on a project to help the homeless, that would help, since I'd be living in a shelter myself.

So now you've got to be independently wealthy to work for a non-profit. Just the demographic that never will.

Bless the Cartoon Network for catering to my nostalgia with Looney Toons on Saturday mornings, followed by Tom and Jerry for Rick. The commercials, however, are still geared towards kids' products/movies. Do kids today watch the cartoons of my youth? Maybe only when their parents force them to? Or should the network be soliciting more relevant ads?

LA Times (free registration required): "California's labor market deteriorated sharply in May as the state's employers shed 21,500 jobs -- more than the rest of the nation combined." Joy.

So. The L.A. Public Library. My branch is within walking distance (though I have to cross a freeway to get there) and has been recently renovated. Not just the usual books and magazines, but a better selection of CDs than I'm used to seeing and DVDs. DVDs! Lots of computers, so never a wait for Internet access while I was living unplugged in No Utilities Land. Thus, the "Reserve a Computer" function on the LAPL website is slick, but a little gratuitous. Using public computers again was almost a little fun, reminding me of my times in German cybercafes surrounded by porn surfers and crazed chicken-hunters. Here, I got to eavesdrop on two of my local neighborhood hoodlums cruising a personals site and swapping anecdotes of girls in the neighborhood.

I'm pretty good about not accumulating overdue fees, but it ought to never happen here: give the LAPL your email address and they'll automatically send you a note a few days before your book is due. The aforementioned slick website has the expected catalog search, but also makes it incredibly easy to place holds on books -- including the page of radio buttons where you can select which branch library you'd like to pick up the book at. Sweet. Of course, you could place holds in Boston, theoretically, but the web requests disappeared into the ether and I never seemed to get the call. The LAPL site lets you check up on your holds (yep, I still have two) and, in case you've lost the little slip of paper with the due date, the status of the stuff you've already got checked out.

When you want to make sure you get into an author reading -- you guessed it -- you can reserve your seat online. I just booked two free tickets to Sherman Alexie on June 25. Or at least I put in the request. He's less popular than Harry Potter, so I might have some luck.

The library store is a little wacky -- a library, selling books? -- but I suppose they've got to raise money for all these perks somehow.

If you want more observations about libraries and technology, from someone who knows a helluva lot more than I do, meet my friend Andrea.

I am the 1049th person to have placed a hold order on the new Harry Potter book at the L.A. Public Library.

I mistyped "Harry Pottery" just now. Tired. More about the wonders of the LAPL tomorrow.

The posts about how much I hate Boston will now be replaced with posts about how bizarre/wonderful/did-I-say-bizarre LA is.

Exhibit A