Only in LA

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LA has a way of making what I once would have thought were extraordinary moments seem rather commonplace. A few nights ago, I watched a gun chase while sipping on a jalapeño margarita at Tortilla Republic, a restaurant that rests between the borders of Beverly Hills and West Hollywood, not exactly Inglewood or Compton. A helicopter circled over shining its spotlight, while LAPD (or was it BHPD?) attempted to chase down the perp. Meanwhile, aside from suggesting to the waitress that she lock the door, Miss Kris and I continued our gossip fest over molten cheese and spicy cocktails.

Yesterday, Rebecca offhandedly mentioned that Madonna was in her spin class (the paparazzi were blocking her parking spot, making her late to class, an LA-specific annoyance, to be sure), which was made all the more funny because Oprah was in another friend’s spin class the day before. (Note to self: Take up spinning.). These #onlyinla moments would have made my 10-year-old and 15-year-old and 20-year-old self gasp when I was growing up on a sheltered Air Force base in New Jersey…and Texas…and South Carolina, places where the most excitement I could find was hitting up the 7-11 or Taco Bell off base (off base!) or shopping at Wal-Mart on a Friday night, the only thing open after 9pm. So it is for that girl, who always dreamed of what it might be like to live someplace like New York or Hollywood, and for you, who I realize I often don’t share these stories, that I present a new column: Only In LA.

And since it’s Oscar week, it only seems fitting to kick off this column with a story about awards season. Stay tuned…

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