There are many cultural similarities between Manhattan and Los Angeles, but one thing you never see in Manhattan are tan, balding 60ish guys driving really nifty, new-looking Bentleys with obviously younger (by at least 20 or 25 years) pretty women riding shotgun. Just before I spotted this guy I noticed another 60ish (or perhaps 70ish) guy driving down Olympic is a red Beemer convertible, also tan and a little jowly, wearing a perfect white T-shirt and what looked like a pair of brown Ray-Bans, his white-silvery hair and sideburns whipping in the wind. I looked and muttered to myself, “Only in L.A.”

I’m typing this in a Starbucks near the Malibu Canyon exit off the 101 north, and there are two female shriekers sitting two tables away, throwing their heads back and laughing riotously at whatever the fellow they’re sitting with, another balding older guy in a white T-shirt (and also a vest), is saying. The women appear to be laughing really loudly in order to please and flatter the older guy. Because to go by the look of this guy, whatever he’s saying, trust me, it’s not that funny.

I’ve given them three dirty looks so far; they’re ignoring me, of course. That goes with being a shrieker. You don’t care what anyone else is thinking or feeling, ever. You’re just going with your ectstatic flow, and eff everyone else.