Taste Test

LA is Vietnam

Los Angeles is a wrecking ball filled with confetti. You arrive, you get destroyed and showered in prizes. A weird bartering system is created between you and the City. Things are randomly stolen from you, things are randomly and magically given back. Your happiness and misery are no longer yours. They belong to the City, and it will do with you as it wants. What keeps you alive is style points. Go sailing. Stay at the Venice Beach Cotel, meet the world. An Indian computer programmetrix will teach you to Salsa.

You pay unseen dividends:

to the Twilight Zone perfect plastic women & weather - Your hair turns Blondie. You comb the boardwalk for the right sunglasses to make you anonymously famous.

to the freeways, to the sprawl - Your lungs lurch and heave for weeks as they’re candy-coated in smog. You develop a dance routine of maneuvers, routes, rendezvouses. You get rid of your wallet and just keep your money in your hand to save time.

The people are secret agents with dual identities and citizenships. Pharmacists are stand-up comedians. Mattress salesmen are masseuses. CEO’s write science fiction.

She is a dangerous two-in-one muse/con artist who gives you something to write about at every corner but, given the chance, steals your craft and takes your inkwell to the cleaners. She is the city of gorgeous mothers, outdoor pianos, grumbling Ukrainian pawnbrokers, beach-side murders, and black Aston Martin engines revving over the rumble of earthquakes. A city of listless writers writing lists. Living in Los Angeles is the closest I think a person can get to witnessing a physical representation of stream of consciousness.

“New York is like World War Two. At least you know where the enemy is, you know who to shoot at,” a TV producer tells me, “But LA is like Vietnam. It’s an overgrown jungle. You don’t know where they’re hiding. They could be anywhere.”

Tags: City, LA