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.

It's:

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.

It's:

It’s iPhone iDolatry.

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

It’s where wearing workout clothes can be almost as good as working out.

It’s where it’s not entirely impossible that Prince could show up on your doorstep one day to share the teachings of the Jehovah’s Witnesses with you... and afterwards, relaxing in your small living room, perform an acoustic version of "Purple Rain" just for you because he believes that you have the potential to live "in the truth" -- you will not correct him on this point; you will keep your mouth shut and let him play.

It’s the balls out redundancy of the "Culver City City Hall" sign.

It’s neighbors who dress like strippers.

It's:

It’s the madman sitting on a bench overlooking the ocean snarling to one of the many voices inside of his head. “I didn’t say I killed her, I said I had her killed. And if you don’t shut up I’ll have you killed, too.”

It’s the beer-bellied baby boomer kayaking around the harbor with his first mate – a life-jacket wearing toy poodle.

It’s the kid putting a piece of pizza on the train tracks, then examining the remains after the Metrolink speeds by.

It’s the bikini-wearing dog walker who kind of makes you wonder: where does she put the poop bags?