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I was inspired to change the layout of my blog by latimes.com. Simple black and white, text driven, classic, and antique. It had been my opinion in creative meetings in jobs of the past, that websites need first to be easy, simple to read, with clear navigation. Once established add the multimedia and sparkles. I, no surprise, lost those battles. I was refreshed to see latimes.com return to what I prefer, and inspired, I modeled mine after such.

I visit latimes.com once a day, at the minimum, because, national news isn't going to tell me about a sinkhole on Lankershim, or a fire in Pasadena. CNN won't likely have political rumblings of city council elections, or measurements of countywide school test scores. And foxnews isn't going exude angelenism. Because when you're from LA, like when you're from Atlanta, or you're from Dallas, Texas, you're not like anyone else. You're an Angeleno. And virtually picking up a local newspaper, reminds me where I'm from.

Being from Los Angeles, and the valley at that, isn't something that makes you confused with being from anywhere else. It's as obvious as the valley girl accent, driving the blocks length, and knowing the weather is as silly as the celebrities. Not a whole lot there and same as yesterday. LA is a good city, and it's been very good to me.

Mostly.

The last boy I dated would call, due to his job, not on my most regular of basises. When he'd do so, I would bombard him with the whosits and whatsits of the past 48 hours.

"Rebecca only 2 days have past since we talked last. How could all of those things have possibly happened to you?"

"I don't know. I don't know. Things. Good. Bad. Very strange, they happen to me. And because you've chosen to date me, you must hear about these things."

So being a native Angeleno, born here, raised here, through riots, earthquakes, and an OJ Simpson chase passing me by off the 5 freeway in Santa Clarita - the unusual has come and the unusual has gone.

In 1996 I was shot at by Mexican gangbangers in what was described by police as an initiation type event. To make matters worse, I was in a bathing suit. I seem to always be in a bathing suit.

Opening Day several years ago Brad Penny, starting pitcher of the LA Dodgers, came within an inch from hitting me with his car.

I once partied in an underground speakeasy in downtown LA with Prince.

I 5150'd 2 guys, one who was laying in a lane of traffic on my street.

I single handedly caught "The Miracle Mile Rapist" who attempted to break in to my apartment and was not ready for my adrenaline stimulated badassness that left him bolting. He now lives in prison due to my airtight police work.

Vince Vaugn checked out my ass through a restaurant window on Beverly Blvd. I do not blame him. I do blame the guy I was with for spending the rest of the night being so damn uptight about it.

My biological grandfather passed away, in a hotel room. They found out at his passing, he was engaged to, and illegally married to, many, many - many, women.

My other biological grandfather, got up one night during dinner, left, and never returned. Word has it he now resides in Iowa.

My dad, that's for another day.

I surprisingly have very little issues with men, but an unnatural fascination with polygamy.

I once drank and was sprayed with Cristal by Tommy Lee and 2 very floozy blondes in pink bikinis at 5am in the morning.

Clearly not knowing LA Laker Pau Gasol, I asked the stranger who he was, and if he played basketball "professionally."

At another time at another place, I made out with a member of Spain's basketball team. Making out is a fun activity, like coloring.

I was caught in a high speed police chase in East LA on a Sunday morning that seemed all together too early for all that fuss. But I stayed at the scene, to nurse the injured, because I'm, in any way trained for that? Lets be honest I was waiting for firefighters.

I worked for John McCain's presidential campaign. I wasn't allowed to talk about it since he hadn't yet announced officially. My friend and I nicknamed him "cupcake" to discuss it in conversation where others may hear. I can't see him on the floor of the Senate, talking of nationalized healthcare or the issues of Arizona constituents, without yelling, CUPCAKE!

LA. It isn't like any other city I've been to. But it's my home. It's made me tough, and beat me down, and made me able to see adventure in everything. I hear people talk badly, and I let it happen. Because how do you ever, through words and stories, convey to another human being, the essence, the indescribable love anyone has for where they are from. Home is a word, like love, with 8 billion meanings, and no real way to describe it.

So you stop describing, and just let it rest, as to say, I'm home.