LA LA LA I LOVE YOU
If you had asked me 10, 5 or even 3 years ago, I would have defied any intimation that I would ever move 'home' to Southern California. I was a stalwart Nor Cal convert. I swore that I'd never return to the land populated by 'the beautiful people'. Sure, I had problems adjusting at first- there were the crying jags when I went weeks without sun and the realization that my wardrobe was completely inappropriate. But to prove my dedication to my adopted home, I diligently consumed mounds of organic fare, drank myself silly in Sonoma and bought a house in a neighborhood that scared my parents. I also absolutely refused to pay for parking. Ever.
But there were certain desires that always laid dormant- the desire to eat an ice cream without a scarf. My inability to drive at normal speeds. The need to see the sun more than occasionally. So I've done it - I've moved back to L.A. And I wasn't even kicking and screaming. I can't help but get giddy when the sun is out in February or November. I love that I can now wear my flip flops more often than not. And by god, I have a pool.
However, my original opinion, formed at the tender age of teenager still applies- the people are vapid, the cars never match the income and the sprawl is seemingly endless and depressing. Added to that, I have come to understand that I most certainly do not live in the right zip code. This is a new dimension I didn't have the pleasure of discovering until now. Here I was, enjoying my rose scented neighborhood, when I was informed that I could not possibly be happy living where I was. Studio City: squirrels, big lawns and much shrubbery. Bernal Heights: rats, one neighbor who repaired cars in the street and the two lesbians who were always hollering at each other. And who could forget that darling former crack house on the corner. My epiphany about the unsavory nature of my new hometown came thanks to a coworker, a Hollywood renter who drives a BMW. He informed me that he might as well live in Minnesota if he was going to live 'in the Valley'. I wasn't sure what to think, but I'm pretty sure that was an insult, even though he is a native of Minnesota.
But to purely detest LA for its refusal to adhere to norms of economics and decency is to miss out on the joy of the circus. The news has provided me with inestimable joy and fodder for fiction. Forget the feel good Northern California newscasters who favored the 'kitty stuck in a tree' story instead of reporting the fatalities in Hunter's Point. No no, my Southern California news never fails to deliver- they are in it to win it. My all time favorite thus far was a story reported over the summer about two elderly women who had a nice little business luring vagrants into their house, taking out insurance policies on them and then offing them to collect on the money. I can only hope to have as much fun as an old lady.
If you had asked me 10, 5 or even 3 years ago, I would have defied any intimation that I would ever move 'home' to Southern California. I was a stalwart Nor Cal convert. I swore that I'd never return to the land populated by 'the beautiful people'. Sure, I had problems adjusting at first- there were the crying jags when I went weeks without sun and the realization that my wardrobe was completely inappropriate. But to prove my dedication to my adopted home, I diligently consumed mounds of organic fare, drank myself silly in Sonoma and bought a house in a neighborhood that scared my parents. I also absolutely refused to pay for parking. Ever.
But there were certain desires that always laid dormant- the desire to eat an ice cream without a scarf. My inability to drive at normal speeds. The need to see the sun more than occasionally. So I've done it - I've moved back to L.A. And I wasn't even kicking and screaming. I can't help but get giddy when the sun is out in February or November. I love that I can now wear my flip flops more often than not. And by god, I have a pool.
However, my original opinion, formed at the tender age of teenager still applies- the people are vapid, the cars never match the income and the sprawl is seemingly endless and depressing. Added to that, I have come to understand that I most certainly do not live in the right zip code. This is a new dimension I didn't have the pleasure of discovering until now. Here I was, enjoying my rose scented neighborhood, when I was informed that I could not possibly be happy living where I was. Studio City: squirrels, big lawns and much shrubbery. Bernal Heights: rats, one neighbor who repaired cars in the street and the two lesbians who were always hollering at each other. And who could forget that darling former crack house on the corner. My epiphany about the unsavory nature of my new hometown came thanks to a coworker, a Hollywood renter who drives a BMW. He informed me that he might as well live in Minnesota if he was going to live 'in the Valley'. I wasn't sure what to think, but I'm pretty sure that was an insult, even though he is a native of Minnesota.
But to purely detest LA for its refusal to adhere to norms of economics and decency is to miss out on the joy of the circus. The news has provided me with inestimable joy and fodder for fiction. Forget the feel good Northern California newscasters who favored the 'kitty stuck in a tree' story instead of reporting the fatalities in Hunter's Point. No no, my Southern California news never fails to deliver- they are in it to win it. My all time favorite thus far was a story reported over the summer about two elderly women who had a nice little business luring vagrants into their house, taking out insurance policies on them and then offing them to collect on the money. I can only hope to have as much fun as an old lady.
posted by almaruca at
7:28 PM
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