Party hats and hors d'oeuvres

A week and a day ago, my Los Angeles host threw me and another newcomer a very nice welcome party.

It was held at a friend's house due to the overwhelming response to the e-vite sent out some time ago.
All manner of industry Angelinos either made an appearance or stayed for the long haul. The party started early and the last few stragglers didn't leave until around 3AM.

My hat is off to both the host and the houselenders as it was as fine a welcome anyone could hope for.

The party was a very relaxed, friendly affair with great snacks, lots of booze and even a bit of dancing at the end of the night.
The party ebbed and flowed for a bit from the kitchen to the backyard fire-pit and then back to the kitchen.
The house drink was the Mojito, but I stuck to my tried and true friend, Whiskey.

With Whiskey in my hand and a smile on my face I shook many hands and concentrated on names, something I'm historically bad with (and must change out here).

Since I was in LA and at my welcome mixer I sort of expected some, well...tools. As the whole world knows, Los Angeles is filled with vapid, shallow a-holes who don't know poop about anything outside of themselves.
While there certainly must be some of those in the city, I didn't meet any at the party. While this may be a testament to the taste in friends and acquaintances of the above-mentioned hosts, it made me pause for thought about preconceptions about a whole city. OK, if put to the irons there was a fellow who struck me as rather smarmy. But smarmy is't the same as dumb or shallow.

For a while now, I've been on a low-publicity rejection campaign of many "pomo" and alternative comics that have nothing but contempt and venom for the Midwest and the south. Their condescension for a whole region based on being politically unsophisticated or the deep and unessesary guilt about being from the Midwest is childish.

Which begs the question; How the hell do I know anything about anyone from a city I really don't know anything about?

There were no fewer than four real (read: paid) screenwriters, a composer, a couple producers, several actresses and many non-industry types at the party. Everybody I spoke to for any length of time was either interesting, clever or at the worst, simply very engaging. Where were all the idiot toolbags?
They must've been at some other party.
Maybe in Milwaulkee.