The Los Angeles Effect: I Hate You/Please Don't Leave Me

Have another drink, Lindsay.

I want to toss scripts into the fire because they don't meet my standards and go to Jack Nicholson's house to smoke a cuban, play poker and talk about it.

By Citizen Correspondent Scott Cooper , U.S.A.

Date Posted: 08/04/07

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As someone who has struggled with my fair share of alcohol and drug problems, it's a wonderful relief that Lindsay Lohan is once again in serious trouble. I'm not going to lie to you; I need this. When I saw the pictures of Britney Spears with the skinhead cut, attacking a car with an umbrella, I giggled like I little girl. Because I've been in a psych ward, and not as a visitor, I hoped she would soon find herself in four point restraints and a Versace straightjacket. I have no beef with Linsday, Paris, Nicole or Britney. My problem is their geography. When the great seductress that is Los Angeles gets dented by their only commodity, fame, I smile as their diamonds start turning to coal. And I know why.

My first attraction towards Los Angeles came in 1982. I'd recently discovered Motley Crue and the story about their bassist Nikki Sixx leaving home for L.A. to start a band. That was all it took. I knew I had to be there.

A couple of years later, my parents decided it was best that I go to boarding school. In a rare move of consideration, they asked where I might like to go. I told them I didn't care which school, as long as it was close to Los Angeles.

As it turned out, I ended up about 75 miles northeast of L.A. and while that didn't cut it, most of my classmates were from the City of Angels. Sons and daughters pushed off to boarding school by busy attorneys, doctors, game show hosts and Tim Newhart. While I hated the school, I loved that I was getting closer. I actually knew people who lived in Century City, Beverly Hills and north of Sunset in Bel-Air. 90210 is one thing but 90077 is something else entirely.

After I got caught smoking weed my freshman year, I was expelled. I sat in the headmaster's office with my disappointed parents and faculty. The headmaster asked, "Where do you think you belong?" "Hollywood High School," I said, dead serious. Vince Neil and Tommy Lee went there; I knew damn well where I belonged.

The next Summer, after a carefully penned letter to the headmaster about growth, culpability and remorse, I was invited to reenroll for my sohopmore year. One weekend, I stayed at my friend Sara's house in Marina Del Rey. That Friday night, her dad dropped us off at a club on Sunset to see a punk show. I was truly in love. The Strip. L.A.