165 lines
9.8 KiB
Plaintext
165 lines
9.8 KiB
Plaintext
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Returning to the City of Angels
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Memoirs of Los Angeles
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10/9/97
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I arrived at Los Angeles International Airport several hours late due to a
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"mechanical problem," quickly grabbed a rental car and drove towards the
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downtown hotel in the evening rain. All I wanted right now was a night of
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sleep before I began what was to be another two day presentation to a
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group of corporate CIOs. Somewhere during my drive between the airport and
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the hotel, a strange feeling overcame me. I have spent 26 years of my life
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in Los Angeles, and know my way around the city like no other. I knew
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where I was and where I was going, but I was experiencing the feeling of
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being a second time visitor to this city, and not that of a once longtime
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resident. Where had all the years, all the memories, all the experiences,
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and all of the people I once knew gone to? Why did I feel like I was
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visiting an alien world?
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I was unexpectedly assigned a suite near the top floor of the hotel with
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an incredible view of all of Los Angeles. From the downtown high rises to
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the ocean, and everything in between, it was right there for me to see,
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complete with a balcony should I wish to enjoy the view unrestricted by
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walls of glass. In retrospect, it was the worst fucking room I could have
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been given in the entire hotel. I did not sleep that night.
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Los Angeles is a brutal city to live in. The alienation and loss of
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identity caused by living in Los Angeles led me to San Francisco almost
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two years ago. San Francisco is an incredible city but, even it becomes
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too hard to live in sometimes for completely different reasons. Sometimes
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I have just felt the need to escape; to run away and detach from the world
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to think about whatever. Over the last year I have been considering
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getting a second residence to escape to when things get too crazy in San
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Francisco. I always considered Los Angeles as the ideal second place,
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despite all the fucked up reasons why I left it in the first place. Maybe
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it was familiarity. But, if this was true, why did I feel so lost here? I
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felt like I had lost myself and my identity all over again just by being
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here. After further thought, I believe the reason why I wanted to spend my
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detachment time here is because I feel detached here. Los Angeles would be
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the perfect environment for an escape city. What I didn't know at the time
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was that I would be living here in less than four days.
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I was telling my manager/agent/old-man-who-I-drive-crazy all of this over
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lunch in the presence of a few CIOs from the class the next day. Later
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that evening in the hotel lounge, an offer was made to me by one of the
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CIOs that was with us at lunch. This company owned several apartment
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complexes around Los Angeles, and in exchange for some complimentary
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consulting services, they would provide me with a furnished apartment for
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one year. As he said, "We get what we want without cost, you get what you
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want without cost." After a few more drinks I accepted the offer, and
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tonight I opened the door to my new apartment in Westwood for the first
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time.
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I should have been home early Tuesday evening in San Francisco, but I am
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still here as of Thursday night, writing this on an old 486 laptop, and
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wondering when the hell I will be going back to where I really live, and
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if I even want to. The original plan for having two residences was to stay
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in one city until I got sick of it, and then go back to the other, and so
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on. I figured every ten days I would be switching residences. I don't feel
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like going back to San Francisco right now. I don't even know why I don't
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want to go home. I just don't. I feel lost. Maybe that's why I want to be
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here in Los Angeles right now. Only problem is, having originally come
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here for a two-day conference, I don't have enough clothing to stay for
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too long. I have no choice right now; I will be staying here for a while.
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I have twenty days of consulting to do here to work off this apartment.
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And the shock of being here is going to cause another sleepless night.
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The Wrong Side of the Street
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10/10/97
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You know when you're in Los Angeles when you've only been here for less
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than an hour and you are already wishing death upon someone. The target of
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my ill will right now is the doorman of our building. Every time you
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approach the door from either side, he holds it open for you, smiles, and
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mutters some small talk. I hate small talk, and I hate people who smile.
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People who smile should be shot. My doorman should be shot. Am I supposed
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to tip this fucker every time he holds open the door for me? Am I supposed
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to tip him once a month like some sort of employee of mine? Holidays only?
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Or should I just ignore him, thereby pissing him off, and probably getting
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a door or two prematurely closed in my face? I didn't tip him when I came
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in because I didn't know if I was supposed to, and, either way, I had
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three pieces of luggage. He gave me a strange look. I gave him a strange
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look back.
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I checked out the building, or at least what I was able to get to, and
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it's pretty cool. There are several small shops like a market, a dry
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cleaner and a hair salon serving the building. There are two fitness
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centers, a pool, a jacuzzi, steam room, four tennis courts, and a
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basketball court in the building. There is subterranean gated parking,
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security guards, a concierge and, of course, a fucking doorman. The view
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from the roof is incredible.
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My first disappointment is the location of my particular unit for two
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reasons. The first is that I have wanted to live in a high rise for the
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longest time, and now that I am, I am living on the fifth floor of a
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thirty floor building. The second reason is the view I have from my
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balcony. I have a view of Westwood Village, UCLA Medical Center, the 405
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freeway and the Santa Monica Mountains. But, the view is broken up by a
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half-dozen commercial high rises right across the street. A unit on a
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higher floor would have made the view better. The bitch is, if I had a
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unit on the other side of the building, even if it was on the same floor,
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I would have an awesome view of Los Angeles sweeping from downtown all the
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way to the ocean. If I have a chance to trade some work for an apartment
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again next year, I want a unit on the other side and at least twenty
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floors higher. The company I worked the deal out with owns the building,
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so it just might work.
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The neighborhood is kind of so-so due to a mixture of paradoxes. It's a
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money area, yet there are bums on the streets. They are here because there
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are a lot of commercial high rises full of business people to beg money
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from. A mile to the north is the UCLA campus where I went to college. A
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mile to the west is the 405 freeway and the Los Angeles Federal Building.
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A mile to the east is lined with commercial and residential high rises,
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which are only one deep, because behind us on the south side is a ridge
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upon which many buildings, including mine, are built, offering spectacular
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views, should your unit face that direction.
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As you could guess, this neighborhood generates a lot of traffic,
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therefore, a lot of noise. During the day the streets are full of
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students, businessmen, commuters and delivery trucks. During the night,
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and on weekends, the streets are filled with students and tourists making
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that shortcut from the freeway into Beverly Hills and all that shit a few
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miles to the east. I don't hear too much of the noise if I keep the
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windows and sliding glass door shut, and I can cut out all noise if I turn
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on a room fan on the slow speed.
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The apartment is pretty impressive, at least compared to what I have in
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San Francisco. It is what is known as a corporate apartment, which is a
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financial alternative to a hotel when companies have long term visiting
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executives who can use it and feel more at home. I have one bedroom and
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one bath. Everything you need, with the exception of clothing and food, is
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already here. It is fully-furnished with cream-colored and bleached-oak
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furniture. The only items missing that I would need are a VCR and a
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stereo. I wish I had a place like this in San Francisco, only with a
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better view and a higher floor. Maybe next year.
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se7en
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Los Angeles
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= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, Submissions =
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