Recently, it seems, I’ve been having the same conversation with my friends. It’s all very Groundhog Day. It begins with my lamenting the fact that I have been more or less single for the entirety of three years. In that time I have dated. Arguably, I’ve dated a lot. I just haven’t dated anyone special. I tell my friends that I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me. My emotional problems are limited, my looks better than average, my brain sharp as a tack and my vagina waxed.

Everytime I begin this conversation, it inevitably ends the same way—my friends, like a Greek Chorus, chime in, as if on cue, “It’s the city you live in. Los Angeles. You just can’t find a good man in Los Angeles.”

If you say it quickly and repeatedly it almost sounds like a Hare Krishna chant. 

Sunshine is not conducive to cozying up with someone else on a weekend with a bottle of Merlot and your worn copy of Titanic. Sunshine is conducive to short-shorts and halter tops and going braless. L.A. is a whore’s summer paradise, and I just can’t compete. 

At first, I thought that they were humoring me. It seemed myopic to believe that I was perfectly normal while the remaining 8 million or so people in Los Angeles were completely dysfunctional. So I set my chin and dated on, a fearless warrior wading through the treacherous waters of silicone and doom. At times, it felt as if my dating has taken on a Descartes-like philosophy—“I date, therefore I am”—almost reminding myself that yes, my libido was still intact. Other times, it has been an exercise in compromise; it doesn’t matter that Bachelor number one hasn’t met my friends Sit Up and Push Up! I am mature, I am ready to overlook petty things like physical prowess! Who cares about an IQ?

But when recently I found myself in a pseudo-relationship with a 30-year-old man who told me that he “didn’t really follow current events,” I decided maybe Los Angeles might have a thing or two to do with my dating luck.

And by luck, I mean, complete and utter misery.

When it seems that Lindsay Lohan is in a more stable relationship than you are, something has got to be up.

[As a side note in the information age I would really like to know how it’s possible to “not really follow current events.” Go to Yahoo.com and google “penis” or “Jessica Alba” and before you’re done typing, Yahoo has updated you on about 40 current events. Step into a modern office building in any major city and the elevator is like “hey dude, here are all the things that happened in the world in the last twenty minutes.” ]

But whatever. 

While my friends on the East Coast have been careening into cohabitation, getting fianced and the occasional baby-making, those here in the Wild Wild West seem to breaking up amidst the petty bickering of an ‘80s cover band. So what gives?

Dating, it seems, like real estate, comes down to three things: location, location, location.

So welcome to sunny Southern California. Are you in the market for a studio?

The first thing that makes Los Angeles a single person’s town, is the weather. Sunshine is not conducive to cozying up with someone else on a weekend with a bottle of Merlot and your worn copy of Titanic. Sunshine is conducive to short-shorts and halter tops and going braless. L.A. is a whore’s summer paradise, and I just can’t compete. 

Speaking of which, there is another serious dating hiccup here in L.A. A little obstacle I like to call the HBA —the hot blonde actress. Now let me tell you, I’m no troll, I am not disfigured, and I work out—religiously. I’ve taken up yoga, pilates and even something called the Bar Method, which I don’t understand, but is very hard on my glutes. But no matter what I do, in Hollywood, there is always another HBA around the corner whose boobs are perky and who will stroke a man’s ego with as much voracity as she’ll stroke his—well, you get it…

And then, there is the L.A man - he is an Agent or a Manager or something people like to call a Creative Executive, which is more often than not, neither creative nor executive. This man has suffered through life, short, bald and stammering, but now, he is the king of the castle! The ruler of the roost! He wields power and influence and a corporate Amex and he who remained a virgin until the ripe age of 22, now has the audacity to shun the idea of commitment. He has been brainwashed to believe that his twenties are for fornicating, his thirties are for fun and his forties are for 20-year-olds.

Another huge L.A problem: rent. Rent in Los Angeles is too low! The same way that Thomas Friedman has proposed keeping gas prices at a minimum of four dollars a gallon to force people to become more environmentally conscious, I propose raising Los Angeles rents to force people to become more commitment conscious. In New York, coupling is nothing short of economical. A one bedroom is appallingly expensive on your own, but practically affordable when you throw a boyfriend into the mix.

So perhaps my dating woes can be traced back to the City of Angels. Which leaves me to wonder what my next move is? Should I invest in a mail-order groom from the glamorous reaches of Boston, New York or Washington D.C.?

Or, should I resort to even more extreme measures and just stop following current events?

If real estate and dating are indeed alike, I, it turns out, am positively homeless.