"You know, because once you go to L.A., you're gonna have friends like crazy but they're gonna be fake friends. You know, they're gonna try to corrupt you. You know, you got an honest face and they're gonna tell you everything. But you cannot make friends with the rock stars!"
- Philip Seymour Hoffman as Lester Bangs in Almost Famous
L.A. man...
Fuck.
Elay.
Los Angeles.
Los An-hell-less.
I have a lot of questions for L.A. and it seems they're never answered. Everything is always left hanging in the air until "next time."
A street will curve off into the distance. A home - covered in bright green and pink foliage. A sign - reminiscent of a place only possible in dreams or in L.A. Everything has a certain grit, mystery, and haunting quality to it.
The buildings and streets get me thinking. It could take a lifetime to discover all of L.A. nooks and crannies. Everything, down to the oil and chewed gum sidewalks leave me wondering what the real story of L.A. is.
I'll point to a house and ask, "Who lives there?"
"Probably that family standing in the yard."
"But who are they?" I ask. "What's their story?"
Me: "What's that building?"
Them: "A church, I think."
Me: What kind of church?"
Them: "I don't know - looks like it might be Christian."
Me: "But what kind? Who goes there? How long has it been around?"
Me: "Who's this guy sitting next to me at this strange coffee shop?"
Them: "It's not so strange."
Me: "But it is. Who is he? Why does he have a computer? What's he writing in his notebook? Is he a writer? A student?"
I'm still waiting for my Los Angeles County phone book with a listing of every single person and place in L.A. along with a brief history on each one.
These are the questions I ask myself every time I visit L.A. During this recent trip though I decided to check out San Diego as well and found myself blank.
Sunshine, brown skin, avocados, and perfectly cooked eggs.
San Diego is so much different from Los Angeles. Los Angeles is all hustle whereas San Diego is all flow. If NYC and San Diego had a baby L.A. would be its clusterfuck spawn.
In L.A. there's drive and you've got to be "on" 24/7. San Diego is chill. Completely and utterly chill like a Bob Dylan song. It's the dog of cities - lounging and occasionally getting up to eat, drink, or pee. Playing and shitting on its own terms. I can see why too. In San Diego, I find myself without words as I look at the ocean. It's people perpetually stoned off the sound of waves and ocean breezes.
I asked my friend there if he thought the vacation mentality could exist forever and if so, where and was San Diego one of those places where everyone was on vacation mode at all times? I instantly heard a SoCal voice in my head say, "The vacation mentality isn't a place man, you carry it within you."
Dude.
My friend told me I should take this query to the Self-Realization Fellowship in Encinitas and get realized.
What happens when you get realized anyway? Am I ready for such a thing? Perhaps it's the underlying reason I could never live in San Diego. That, and the lack of intellectual stimulation. I'm from the Midwest. I'm hyper and over-analytical. I like the brooding nature of Easterners and ruminating over one's problems that is the basis for our sarcasm and need for people to like us.
Luckily, a melting pot like L.A. is the perfect city blend of peace, love, and music baby. It's just that in L.A. it's called sex, drugs, and rock and roll. You can vent your problems to your friends over wine coolers at the beach while internally judging and envying all the beautiful people around you. Men and women wearing East Coast styles mixed with tan lines and 7 a.m. film calls. Networking over wheatgrass and kale smoothies with shots of bee pollen. Best to save the self-realization for when you're sitting in traffic on the 10 during a trip that could potentially take only 15 minutes and but ends up taking an hour.
Oh L.A...
My Lyft driver Will said L.A. was like a hot girl who never had to try. NYC? Atlanta? Chicago? Shit, we got beaches and Vitamin D.
Going back to L.A. made me realize how true the song by The Eagles is. You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave. No matter how hard you try.
I brought this song up to Will and he burst out saying, "I can't listen to that song anymore it's so true!"
My friend Anthony who had moved out to L.A. from Chicago said something in a similar vain. He imagined that when people do leave, they spend all their time figuring out how to get back. A dilemma I find myself in now albeit a tad varied. How can I get back there but not go back there at the same time? Crazy, I know.
L.A. isn't tame. She isn't easy to get through to. A lot of people despise L.A. Many of whom have never actually been there. They see it as a traffic-filled grotesque mass of platinum blondes with fake tits. They refuse to see L.A. as anything else and would much rather change her than accept her. But L.A. isn't one of those places you make your bitch. You don't mold her into something you can manage. To the contrary, she will mold you and force you to find your own pockets of paradise within the place also known as HELL.A. You must take her as she is. All the guts, glory, and gaudiness. Fake tits included.
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