A Letter to Los Angeles

I am in a very odd mood today. It's 2:45 PM and I am still in my pajamas. I am contemplating brewing a cup of coffee, but the forecast looks grim regarding whether or not I will be venturing outdoors today. It is a charming day by all accounts; the sun is out, the clouds have been blown to some other remote stretch of the sky, and I hear birds! Yet, I am less than enthused by the warming weather. Spring time in Southern California is almost as depressing and incomplete an experience as Christmas. I miss Spring in Ohio. In California it is hard to get a feel for seasons as they change. Spring in Los Angeles smells like smog. As the weather gets warmer, that thick layer of airborne chemical debris becomes suffocatingly thick. It's like inhaling molasses.

I don't plan to live in Los Angeles forever, and I don't think that I will especially miss it when I leave. The fabled free spirited holy land promised by the Beats of yesteryear was either nothing more than an elaborate piece of fiction, or it has died long ago. The Los Angeles that I had put on a pedestal because of Kerouac is pallid and sad in reality. In the flesh, Los Angeles much resembles its aging residents.

On film, it is a beauty. It is flawless. It looks trapped in amber, or perhaps, in plastic. But as you stare longer and more intently at its face, the smile is suspiciously stiff. There is something incongruent, strained, and possibly painful in the eyes. Then you begin to notice the unnatural sheen of its flesh and the lack of softness, too. Tiny veins and scar tissue emerge. Los Angeles is a pretty face that an ugly person purchased. It's been injected, nipped, tucked, and airbrushed until it resembles life, but is not truly alive.

When you can revel in all that is dirty, fake, and depraved about Los Angeles, the place can be kind of interesting. It's not hard to understand why creepy connoisseur David Lynch would find so much inspiration in this city. This city is absurd. A paradox with a zip code. You can attend an event at The Walt Disney Concert Hall. You can have a five star dinner that evening, because Los Angeles is a culinary Valhalla. Be careful you do not stray too far to find a bite to eat, however. If you venture too many feet from the concert hall, you will be lost in a foreign place. Drive five minutes and the roads will disintegrate beneath you. The cost per square foot plummets and the sidewalks bustle with more tents than a Boy Scout troop in Yellow Stone. No more than a few minutes away and you've found yourself in Skid Row. A far cry from how majestic the rest of Downtown looks, this is a place where people can't even find a place to shit let alone get a five star meal.

Los Angeles is a very special and surreal place to live; the poor reside on the front lawns of the nauseatingly wealthy. De facto segregation is King yet no one admits it. The murder rate is almost as high as the (overpriced) cost of living. Police Helicopters are routine background noise. Everyone owns a Hybrid. Borderline Orthorexic dietary fads are circulated like hand bags. Being able to overly medicate yourself or your children on name brand (and unnecessary) pharmaceuticals is a sign of status. Everyone is gorgeous and insecure. Communities are gated. People wear their political correctness like lipstick, yet the general populace is incredibly xenophobic and prejudiced.

Los Angeles is superficial and yet so engrossed in the act that it doesn't even know it. It's a kingdom built on fiction and suspended in denial. The wealthy postpone youth by injecting it into their faces, and everyone ignores the fact we are a man-made oasis built on a desert that shouldn't even be here. Los Angeles is an odd place, and therein lies its charm. You have to submit to it or learn to appreciate its flaws in order to survive it. Unfortunately, either option leaves you jaded. Living in Los Angeles is bad for a person's health. This is why I must get out. I will never forget you dear city of Angels, but I cannot psychologically afford you.