I love Los Angeles.

I’m in L.A. this weekend visiting some good friends. I’ve always loved L.A. It’s my favorite town alongside London and San Francisco. Of course it couldn’t be more different than both. Everything here is boxy and clean lines and neon caked with a bit of dirt. People that don’t live here or appreciate L.A. talk about the smog and traffic, but I associate L.A. but with that beautiful, quiet stillness in the air before a big cat’s about to pounce on its prey. 

There’s a lot of history and dark matter between the lines and faded tans and browns. Last night we took a drive in my friend’s convertible past the Magic Castle with its big neon sign visible from the street. Apparently it’s invitation-only for only the best wand-wavers, but sometimes actors and other VIPs are allowed in. We made our way past the Scientology Celebrity Center, gigantic billboards featuring Will Ferrell and Paris Hilton, lending to the illusion that these people are way more important than the grand scale of their visages might suggest. Everyone here trades in illusions, and/or delusions. 

My friend screened the brilliant documentary, “L.A. Plays Itself” last night, a brooding, astute study of how one of the world’s most photographed cities is depicted in the movies. The film is a cognizant blend of architectural history, sardonic political and cultural commentary, and film criticism. More than any other film I’ve seen—even more so than the painfully sad Confessions of a Superhero—the documentary underscores all the cinematic illusions we fall for every time we go to the movies, that feeling of being cheated, suckered. The filmmaker makes the case that in many respects, popular portrayals of the city have come at the city’s expense. I’ve read entire books on one of my favorite sci-fi movies, Blade Runner, but learned from this documentary that the same building used for the interiors of Harrison Ford’s bounty hunter protagonist’s apartment also served as the seemingly different location for the climactic battle with his quarry. We have and will be conned, cheated, fooled again. 

People in San Francisco tend to hate on L.A., but L.A. people tend to say they love San Francisco. As fake and shallow and plastic and cold as outsiders claim L.A. is, my experience has always been the opposite with regard to the people. Of course those things that constitute the cliches exist—the airheads, the phonies, the climbing—but those things are in San Francisco, too. Maybe not to the same degree, but it’s there. You’ll just find the self-righteousness, overbearing social consciousness and engineering, hyper-liberalism and suffocating tech-geek innovations wrapped in a candy-coated veneer of Redwoods and disingenuous claims of altruism and “progress.”

San Francisco’s a smart town. Sometimes it’s too egg-headish. Maybe they look down on the hucksters peddling what amounts to visual snake oil, cheap distractions offering only temporary relief in the darkness of the theater. Maybe they resent someone trying to take them for a rube. Or they resent being taken so often, like everyone else.

At the end of the day, everybody wants the money and fame. And no, I haven’t been putting down my beloved San Fran. I just don’t think these cities should be fighting. They’re both completely wonderful. I love you both. San Fran just needs to stop being haters and embrace the fact that we all watch TV shows, go to the movies and sneak a peek at "American Idol." You can download and YouTube and Google and tweet about that stuff thanks to San Francisco. But don’t pretend you don’t like it. All that crap is made here.