You bought your Tesla at the poor girl's South Coast Plaza because you did a lot of contract work for the Brea Mall. Your daughter dips wieners across the plaza at Hot Dog on a Stick while your son gives makeovers at MAC. You're opening a Lush downtown when you get back from your Cancun timeshare. Life is good.
Every time you drive the old Jeep down Beach Boulevard, you start pining for an overhaul: Medieval Times becomes a year-round fright-fest-plus-dinner thing, Knott's Berry Farm becomes a weekend-only joint like Magic Mountain, they bring back Movieland Wax Museum, and both Beggars Banquet and Tower Records reopen. Then the hash high wears off.
Too cool to actually live at the beach (not to mention the real estate cost), you're also too much of a bikini rat to exist more than a short drive away. Five years after getting that AA at OCC you're still a barista, but your record collection is better than anyone else's at SecondSpin.
Coto de Caza
You play in the NBA but can't be bothered with Beverly Hills except to take meetings. Estates there don't have enough room for your security detail, fleet of Maseratis, and five cascading pools-within-pools. Each of the Real Housewives claims to have made your blackberry mojito at that one Labor Day blowout, yet the truth is you may not exist: no one ever sees you at the driving range.