It’s oil derricks in your backyard.

It's:

It’s the swimsuit-clad, amateur mariachi band performing for their families at the beach.

It’s walking by Amy Adams while panning her performance in “Julie and Julia.”

It’s the apocalyptic sunsets during the wildfire months.

It’s the panic of pitching season, pilot season, casting season, and waiting for the phone to ring season.

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It’s how very few people know that “Rosa Parks Freeway,” “Pearl Harbor Memorial Freeway,” “Sonny Bono Memorial Freeway” and “Christopher Columbus Transcontinental Highway” are all aliases for Interstate 10 in California.

It’s where good food is cooked in strip mall restaurants.

It’s the neurotic television writers getting more neurotic by the latte.

It’s the certain look that older men get when they’ve been in the Hollywood game since the days of raging bulls and easy riders – at first they seem like they have it all, but then you look closer and notice that the muscles are withered, the tan is wrinkled, the wealth is masking a distinct poverty of the soul, and the younger woman on their arm is already miles away.

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It’s iPhone iDolatry.

It’s how the lawns of the mansions on Sunset Boulevard are larger than 9-hole golf course greens.