Why Am I in L.A.?

There are times that I miss New York very badly.  Days when I think to myself, "Now, why did I come to L.A. again?"  Today was one of those days.  I was at lunch with a friend and one of her friends.  He said that he was from the suburbs of Chicago and I asked him if he was from Evanston as Evanston is the only Chicago suburb I know of.  He said no, he was from further south.  I then asked if Evanston was the suburb that Hemingway was from as I vaguely recalled that Hemingway was from one of the nice areas outside of Chicago, to which he responded that he thought Hemingway from the Keys.  I replied that no, he was from Illinois.  In fact, he was from the same town as one of my old bosses, and she said that Hemingway made a declarative statement that once he left Illinois, he would never go back, and as far as I know, he never had.  He got a job as a reporter, went to the continent for the war, and the rest was history.  The conversation only devolved from there.  He did not know that Hemingway was a reporter.  In fact, he knew nothing about Hemingway.  I thought he was joking.  He wasn't.  And suddenly, I was embarrassed.  Not for him.  But for myself.  I was the bore at the table telling people things they did not want to know about and had no interest in.  In fact, I even saw his eyes flick to my friend who was sitting there silently.  Which was the exact point that I felt stupid.  Not stupid as in ignorant, but stupid as in, "Know your audience."  In other words, don't talk about Hemingway with people who don't read Hemingway.  

Its been a long time since I've felt like the nerd at the table.  In fact, in the last ten years, I've become so accustomed to talking to people who either (A) know what I'm talking about (and usually know more about it), or (B) are curious about what I'm talking about and therefore listen and make considerate commentary, that I've forgotten how awful it is to feel ashamed about knowing trivial stuff.  I forgot what the blank look looked like.  I forgot about the uncomfortable silence.  And I forgot about the snide remarks people make to keep you feeling dumb for being a smarty-pants.  It was high school all over again.  Only this time, after he realized that he had hurt my feelings, he tried to start the conversation up again.  (I didn't let him.)  Whereas back in high school, they would have laughed about it for hours, making more and more stupid, redundant, and derivative jokes about Hemingway and me that I would finally just go home and cry.  (Thank god those days are over!)  

I'm not saying that everyone in L.A. is a defiant ignoramus.  In fact, I work with a couple of curious and intelligent people and can always rely on a friend and her hubby for an engaging night out. What I'm saying is, finding more of them is proving taxing.  After two years, I should have more than a handful of people here that I can call upon to keep my brain active, shouldn't I?  Why am I in L.A.?