LA is a Funny Place.
No so much ‘ha-ha’ funny. It’s a surreal experience: let’s put it that way.
It’s the kind of place where no one can be bothered to give you the time of day (or if they can, it’s with visible bother), until they sense you have something they want, at which point they suddenly turn into your beaming best friend, until they can’t think of anything else they need, at which point they ignore you again, until they think of the next thing they need and become your best buddy again.
Repeat process. No irony needed.
The oddest part is that most people here aren’t even from Los Angeles. (Like me, for example.) It’s as if the rest of the country found a way to quietly ship their most sociopathic members into one place (like me? agh!!), in a slightly tamer version of Escape from New York, the sci-fi thriller where some future New York has become a citywide prison.
But in Los Angeles, instead of trash-can fires and dark skyscrapers cloaked in eternal night, the weather is gorgeous, people in fancy cars drive around in a rage, and the screams are all inside.
And yet I love LA.
But why? Why, you ask?
Probably just the weather. Okay, more than that: maybe it’s the capacity for reinvention. In fact, LA is all about reinvention. As a friend from Boston once told me: “Boston is the type of place where people tell you who you are. LA is a place where you tell the world who you are.”
I guess that’s it, in a nutshell.
Yes, it’s often fleeting, flaky and shallow. But you’re oddly free here. Wonderfully, joyously free.
Stay tuned. Real news a-coming.