Don’t ever let anyone tell you that Los Angeles is not the absolute *center* of “cool.” Check this out: unwilling to let something as ludicrous as an indoor smoking ban keep them from always looking hip and smooth, Angelinos have contrived a means of ensuring that they always appear to have a freshly fired-up Marlboro going. Their secret? Sweet smog! I don’t know how they do it – the essense of true cool is always fleeting, n’est pas? – but they’ve managed to infuse their available air supply with a thick, lustrous smog that allows even the most anemic geek to come off as a regular Bogart, constantly ingesting and expiring a visible cloud of suave, lady-killing exhaust. The best part: “smoking” the L.A. atmosphere requires no hands, so that once you’ve been spotted shooting out smoke circles by the man or woman of your desire, you can dive right into the heavy petting, unencumbered. Also, the risk of setting one’s bed on fire during a post-coital smoke is now a concern for only our most incompetent citizens – in L.A., you need only push your unconscious partner away and breath deep the sweet, creosote-tinged air, worrying about the possibility of having contracted crabs at some other, less respiratorily-satisyfing time.