Behind Enemy Lines: Los Angeles

Oh, Los Angeles, how you baffle me.

Really, I’m quite confused by your existence, which is strange since I am no stranger to your city limits. Right now, I’m sitting in the Tower Bar of the Sunset Tower Hotel (fuck yeah, I’m on my MacBook. I’m a guest of this hotel, as far as I’m concerned, I can do whatever the hell I want. Also, I’m in a secluded spot, no one can really see me, or be bothered by  me being reclusive on my computer), engaging in a cocktail of activities including, but not limited to, eavesdropping on industry types (“She could have had the sixth lead in the new Spielberg film! Sixth lead! But she clearly fucked it up” and “He has to be gay. We all know it. He’s playing straight for his career”), shamelessly scanning the dim room for celebrities (pathetic, I know, but I’m only looking for good celebrities! I just want Jenny Lewis or Jeff Bridges to walk in. And, okay, I’ll admit it, a Kardashian would be nice, because I have an irrational love for those girls) and silently judging the (obvious) starfuckers in their platform shoes and metallic skirts as we all dine in a room over looking the Los Angeles skyline.

*Breaking news* An important looking man who looks vaguely familiar (like a lame version of John Cale and wearing sunglasses at 10pm) just walked in holding a bichon frise (the worst breed) accompanied by a man I overheard having this conversation with the front desk clerk today as he was checking in (as was I).

• British man: “Hello!”
• Clerk: “Welcome back, Mr. (I, regrettably, forget his last name), we have your room ready. We noted that last time your sleep was disturbed by a billboard from the Strip shining into your room, we took care to make sure your room is on the other side of the building. Also, we have your (whatever) series Jaguar waiting in the garage whenever you are ready to go out. We know it’s your favorite.”
• British man: “Thank you! I’m sure the room will be lovely. You know, last time I had the penthouse, but that was only because I was hosting a grand party, you know.”

I zone out and continue to go about my business of checking in, dropping my purse, and checking on my foot, which due to the heels I was wearing, was causing part of my foot to bleed profusely. I zone back in.

• British man: “I am going to have drinks with him here tonight. Although I now think we have some dinner to go beforehand.”

Now, perhaps you see why I am interested in who the man with the dumbest breed of dog is.

Anyway, the reason I’m baffled by L.A. is because I have things I really like about the city, but it seems more so, things I really hate. I like trendy restaurants that play dumb, Top 40 hits and then randomly play a Pearl Jam song (also, ones that serve truffle tater tots). I love staying at historic hotels in my favorite architectural style (art deco) where Truman Capote once lived. I like the Whisky A Go-Go and thinking about Jim Morrison. I like the canyons and the hills. I like driving down La Cienega and listening to ‘La Cienega Just Smiled’. I like being scornful towards UCLA (I was bred to attend UCLA like my father, legacy unfulfilled). And I enjoy straight up hating USC.

But, I hate that it takes an hour and a half to get from 5th Street in Santa Monica to the Sunset Strip (nine miles). I hate, to mirror Holden Caulfield, all the phonies. I hate that this is not the city that was once magical in the sixties and seventies. I hate that its polluted like nobody’s business. I hate that it just doesn’t feel like San Francisco. I hate that it doesn’t have the amount of culture that New York and San Francisco have in one city block, even though the people I’m surrounded by right now feel Los Angeles is the only place to be.

But I don’t hate Los Angeles. It’s nice for a few days. It’s always entertaining.

It’s just not for me.