January 21, 2005

I Could Live Here

It happens every time I come out here: Los Angeles Cognitive Dissonance.
I escape the frozen tundra of New York, land in sunny, temperate L.A., and think that maybe it's time to relocate permanently.
People here are calm. They wear shorts in January. They have houses and yards and beautiful views, and no one shoves on the sidewalk. No one even walks on the sidewalk. The only walking they do is when they go hiking (hiking!). Nothing is a huge emergency. People here see friends that live miles away on a daily basis; I have friends from college I haven't seen in years simply because I'm too lazy to go to the East Side.
My friends here all have jobs, but they go in late. They take hour long lunches (the longest lunch I ever took in New York was a trip to the 'other deli' that's a few blocks further away from the office than my normal deli, and even then my boss was waiting for me when I returned to my desk, cup of soup in hand). They like their jobs - many of them even took jobs doing what they want instead of taking jobs to pay the rent. Even my friends who came out here to be actors and didn't make it are doing things they enjoy.
You only need one wardrobe. There are pools. Year-round tans.
And so I start to really consider moving across the country. Of turning my back on New York and becoming one of the enemy: A Los Angelino (Los Angelean?)
But then it all comes screeching back to reality. Shorts in January. Seems like a good idea, but how do you know when it's winter? No Spring. No Fall. No Snow on Christmas. People have the Christmas trees on their balconies here for Christ's sake (Yes I'm aware of the pun there, but let it go. I'm in L.A. My I.Q. has dropped a few points since I got off the plane). Say what you will, but there's something about autumn in New York that makes me feel incredible. You never hear about autumn in L.A., because there is no autumn in L.A.
There's no nightlife. Lord knows there are no good nightclubs. Though I'm getting a tad old to keep on clubbing, it's nice to have the option. The bars close at 2, and everyone goes home and does coke till sunup. People drive. A good portion of the time they do so drunk.
My commute takes 20 minutes. Boyfriend will spend hours in traffic on the way home from work.
Everyone out here is a writer (Yes, I see the irony, but in all fairness. I would never use the phrase "commercial project" to describe anything that I write.). And if you're not a writer, you're an actor. Or an actor's best friend. They for some reason understand why Paris Hilton is famous, but could not pick Anna Wintour out of a lineup. No delis. No pizza delivery. No population of gay Brazilian/Dominican/Portuguese/Venezuelan men to date and ultimately be rejected by or break up with because they are too emotionally unstable and clingy.
As cell phones on the East coast get smaller and easier to carry, L.A. cranks out laptop sized phones which take up the passenger seat. It's no fun having to give up shotgun to Boyfriend's phone. Not to mention the damned phone never moves the seat up and I'm forced to sit in back with my knees in my chin.
I guess that there is a give and take to wherever one chooses to live. New York makes me crazy, but being away from it for too long makes me even crazier. I like L.A. (Don't tell anyone in New York, but I realized yesterday that I've actually missed L.A.), but I don't know if I could handle it here.
If only there was some way to become rich and unteathered enough to be able to split my time between the two. Perhaps I should start looking for directors to sleep with. At the very least, I'm making sure that Boyfriend and I eat out somewhere on sunset for every meal. Apparently that's where you get discovered and given your own sitcom: when you're out to eat.


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