I never wanted to live here (too many earthquakes, floods, fires, serial killers), but I used to LOVE visiting it. From my perspective, it is one of the most beautiful states in America, although I haven't been there since 9/11. As a kid, I went there with my parents and saw the conventional tourist attractions-- San Simeon, Universal Studios, the Redwood Forest, etc. Later, a friend of mine and his wife lived in various places throughout the state over the years, so I used to travel there as often as I could afford a plane ticket, crash at whatever place they were living in at the time (Pacific Palisades, La Jolla, San Diego, Valley Center, L.A., etc.), rent a car, and drive to all the "esoteric" places I wanted to. The graveyards in California are magnificent, although you might have some trouble seeing the gravesites you're interested in (despite the obstructionism of some of the people working at the cemeteries, I saw the graves of Humphrey Bogart, Sharon Tate, Bela Lugosi, Bugsy Siegel, Virginia Rappe, Peter Lorre, Carl "Alfalfa" Sweitzer, Spencer Tracy, Larry Fine, Rudolph Valentino, Dorothy Stratten, Gracie Allen, Clara Bow, Chico Marx, Marilyn Monroe, Bing Crosby, Lou Costello, Curly Howard, Tyrone Power, George Raft, Charles Laughton, Stan Laurel, Elizabeth Short aka The Black Dahlia, and others probably too numerous to mention). Hollywood and San Francisco had old bookstores that couldn't compete with what was in NY, but were fascinating nonetheless. I got lost in Compton not long after the riots and passed numerous burned-out buildings (unlike Reginald Denny, I was fully prepared to step on the gas at the first sign of trouble). I ate at one of the oldest restaurants in Hollywood, a place haunted by the shades of John Barrymore and Louise Brooks. I saw Walt Chamberlain and Tom Snyder. I finally stood in front of the house where Bugsy Siegel was shot and had my picture taken while wearing a shite eating grin (when we traveled to California as a family during my childhood, I remember passing the street, pointing it out excitedly to my parents...who generally were tolerant of my eccentricities...and them telling me in exasperation, "Look, we don't have time for that crap now! Your father's been driving all day and we don't have time to look at some house where a crummy gangster was shot!"). I drove up the Pacific Coast Highway from San Diego toward Big Sur, Carmel and Santa Cruz, and it's one of the most achingly beautiful trips I've ever made in my life, and I've seen a fair portion of the world. In San Francisco, I ate bad Italian food, great seafood, and toured Alcatraz and the porno theatre where the Mitchell Brothers first unveiled a hot-as-hell Marilyn Chambers aka The Ivory Snow Girl on an unsuspecting world (in my own defense, let me say that she was one of the primary fantasy figures who helped get me through a very difficult adolescence, and for that she has my eternal thanks). In San Diego, I crossed the border into Tijuana, got hellaciously drunk, took shaky photographs of Mexican police officers walking the streets who were (thank God!) good-natured about it, and forgot to buy available-without-a-prescription painkillers (I had enough of my own, thank you). I miss California immensely and hope to visit it again soon.