Pestilence. Cell Phones. So Much to Love About L.A.

Civic pride is a funny thing. In Los Angeles, as elsewhere, we hate it when outsiders trash us.

When they call us flaky, we bristle.

When they wonder aloud why we bother to stay amid riots, quakes and other forms of pestilence (mudslides, brush fires, gang shootings, smog, silicone implants)--we get defensive. We tell ourselves they’re jealous because we don’t have snow in May, or fish flies in June, and even if we did, who would notice because there’s always something fabulous going on.

(Which is more than we can say for your town, pal.)

Paradoxically, we reserve the right to make fun of ourselves. In fact, it’s one of the joys of living in a town full of airheads and disasters. So much material to work with. (Sing with me now: We Are the Best! Los Angeles!) Most every Angeleno has a wry story to tell about a quintessential L.A. moment, an unexpected interaction that sums up, in shorthand, the spirit of the place.

(Every city does. Our urban rival, New York, is positively brimming with them. On Seventh Avenue, I once observed a taxi cab sitting behind another car at a red light. Moments before the light turned green, the cabbie honked at the driver in front, just to put the guy on notice that the light was about to change and he better be paying attention. To me, that was impatient, antsy New York in a nutshell.)

Quintessential L.A. moments never involve taxis. They involve psychic powers, car chases, cellular phones, the industry and, not infrequently, plastic surgery.

To wit:

*

A mid-30ish woman met a business client at Spago for dinner. Just before she arrived at the restaurant, she chatted on her car phone with a girlfriend about a venture they were about to launch. Before hanging up, they joked about their fat, about how embarrassing it had become to undress in front of a new man and about their plans for liposuction.

During dinner, a guy sitting one table away overheard the woman discussing the new venture. He leaned over, and said, “I’m kind of psychic and I’m getting a vibration about you. I don’t think you should be embarrassed to take your clothes off in front of men. And I really don’t think you should have the operation.”

She was flummoxed, until he fessed up: He had picked up her car-phone conversation on his cell phone, and realized who she was when he heard her talking business.

*

A big-pants correspondent for a national TV newsmagazine, a guy with enough on-camera gravitas for a whole newsroom, recently watched a live car chase on TV. Suddenly he realized that the chase was not just in his neighborhood, but about to roll right past his home. He ran to his balcony, pumped his fist in the air, and yelled, “Go! Go! Go!”

*

A young man was riding with a friend along the bike path in Venice. His friend fell behind. He turned around to find her, and there she was pedaling haphazardly along, having taken a call that came in on her cellular phone. He laughed so hard he rode right off the pavement and fell into a heap on the sand.

*

An attractive woman was at a party, chatting with a man. He was staring intently at her. Finally he asked, “Are those real?”

She looked down at her chest.

“My breasts?” she said in shock.

“No,” he said, “your lips.”

*

My own dear husband, who has been known to channel Marlon Brando, was with me on a tour of Universal Studios. We visited the “Harry and the Hendersons” attraction, where audience members are invited on stage to help demonstrate how sound effects are created. Someone was put in charge of a squeaky door; someone else was instructed to roar. My husband was given thunder duty. He was stationed next to a big sheet of metal and instructed to give it a good shake when cued.

“OK,” said the guy who was running the show, “when this light goes on, squeak the door. When this light goes on, roar. And when this light goes on, make thunder.”

“Um, excuse me,” said my husband. “I have a question.”

“Yesss?”

“Well, I was just wondering,” my darling said. “What is my motivation?”

“Very funny,” said the guy. “You must be from L.A.”

* Robin Abcarian’s column is published Wednesdays and Sundays.