The crowds, the gridlock, the miles of wannabes and wouldbes and arebes. A city who’s portrait is unanimously painted as a “golden city” littered with self-proclaimed glamor and powder-covered skin: Los Angeles and Hollywood are interchangeable in the minds of the media and its followers.

The question du jour: Does the city live up to its hype? Is it worth giving of yourself and falling in love with the city with the hope of being fallen for in return? My answer is out of character, unexpected, and may shock readers comfortable with my standard reiteration:

I say it is.

Los Angeles surpassed its hype. I came expecting little, and have been mirrored gifts beyond what I will admit to in person.

First, a little story:

Two years ago, at the dawn of my struggle for financial independance, I was working thirteen-hour days at a cable access television station on Maui, Hawaii. Though the organization was small, and its duties even smaller, the staff and its producers never ceased to act as though it were a subsidiary of Universal Pictures or Paramount.

The game of overinflated egomaniacism soon became so integrated into who we were, we would work hours we didn’t have to; worry about ratings that didn’t exist, and create overall drama for ourselves as a group.

Paralleling this phenomenon, was a show traveling across the airwaves of NBC and iTunes called Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. Written primarily by Aaron Sorkin.

“Studio 60″ as it was lovingly referred to around the station was a suculent addition to our mental syringe of ego boosts.

The show followed the cast and crew of a variety show guiltily similar to Saturday Night Life or “SNL” (a now 33-season hit variety show also created by NBC) behind its stages and through its wings. The quick-witted dialogue of the lead characters always seemed a notch too smart to be human, even for a movie producer on speed (which was the well-played character of Mathew Perry, coincidentally paralleling his real-life drug addictions).

The show was ours. Many of the conflicts and communication mishaps which occured mirrored similar situations occuring in our office. It was a weekly, hour-long passive ego-stroke. We each pretended, in our minds, we were the cast-members, spouting out quick-witted snarky remarks which left our coworkers speechless.

It was a dream, but a real one nonetheless. It was something we all cared about and enjoyed. It was a bonding point for our staff. Wednesday mornings, after the show’s airing the night prior, we would all discuss (while pretending to work) the events of the show.

Before we knew what was happening, the show was slated to be cancelled. The show was lacking in popularity in the southern states. Its highest-enumerated demographic was the West-coast. Coincidentally, this is also the demographic with the least amount of regular television viewers.

Following NBC’s announcement, an uprise formed online. SaveStudio60.Com was formed as an online petition, trying desperately to communicate with the executives in charge. Their efforts were to no avail, however, and the show was cancelled.

This brings us back to the current day: What is the dramatic event responsible for turning my soured, bitter opinion of Los Angeles around?

Last night, I agreed to see a “reading”, performed by a friend of my sister. Her name, Amy Turner, was one I was familiar with only vaguly. Even as my sister’s best friend, we hadn’t met before.

The show was in a hipster dramatic-arts facility with a miniature stage and 40 seats set up for viewing. As the lights dimmed in the theater I queried my sister with a whispered “What does Amy do for a living?”.

“She is a writer. She used to write for Studio 60.”

…what now? My brain had stopped. I had only in my dreams considered the thought of meeting so much as a facility janitor on the payroll of Studio 60, let alone a writer who had trudged through the “trenches” of the writer’s room, stuck through late-night cast-parties, shaken the surpisingly-small hands of Aaron Sorkin. This had not been on my agenda for the night.

I sat through the show, watching various performers, thinking about what my sister had mentioned so offhandedly.

Is this the way people felt when they saw Johnny Depp buying an ice cream? Or Mary-Kate Ashley at Starbucks?

Is it possible to be starstruck when the person you’re meeting isn’t classified as a star?

Can I simply classify it as an inspiring point of contact? My pop-culture loathing, alt side would feel better that way.

This was LA for me. Going out for drinks and “tapas” with a writer for a prominent magazine (who just returned from a comissioned wine-tasting expedition in France), my awesome sister, and a lead writer who had served time on the books of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip . This placed the city in a new perspective for me.

This city is hard to navigate, the pollution clogs the lungs with an unejectable cloud of tar, and people are, as a whole, are mean to each other - BUT: The inspiration acheived from a concentration of dreams; a city in a state of constant transience, a common goal for productivity can provide a boost for even the most self-stimulating among us.

My impressions of Los Angeles continue to shift and mutate: But the entirely down-to-earth experience of dinner, with an entirely unassuming set of talent has created an indelible impression sure not to fade.