A Love Letter to Los Angeles

I’m still in love with you and always will be

Happy birthday, Los Angeles. You turned 241 on September 4, 2022, however nobody said anything. The regional government composed something for your last birthday when you turned 240, yet this year it appears they just gave up. Your own administration ghosted you. This makes me sad, and frankly somewhat mad, because I love you.

Please accept my apologies that nobody thanked you for this strange powerful world you’ve given us: the shocks of hot pink bougainvillea; the buzz of hummingbirds; the strange winding steep roads where it’s alarming to park your car; the immensely large agave plants that tower over us; the trails above the city where you can run into coyotes (that in some way help to remember me B-list f*ck bois) and rattlesnakes and the plant that you can make ricin from, assuming you paid attention in science class or even to Breaking Bad.

Nobody toasted you to thank you for having the option to drive up the coast and become inebriated on brew and new fish, and then, at that point, recuperate by the tide pools. No thanked you for the endowment of having the option to fly down the freeway to your cousin’s home in Chatsworth and float in their pool during the 103 degree heat while they smoke pot and chuckle. Nobody thanked you for having the option to have horse here, (directly in the city!) stabled in strange random areas. Nobody referenced that you can walk along a stream loaded up with egrets and cranes; or that a red-tailed hawk or an owl could appear on your wall one day, the primary sign that you have a rat issue.

Nobody thanked you for the food, an abundance of wealth unparalleled by any city, ever, anywhere. (Battle me, New York City). The Muslim Chinese restaurants with the their sharp lamb dishes; the other Chinese restaurants with dangerous shrimp and stunningly various conclusions on how hot Kung Pao ought to be; the faint total; the Korean barbeque and tofu soup; the organic product stands that taught us to put hot red pepper on watermelon; the ramen; the sushi restaurants that shame you for requesting california rolls; the coffee shops from the 1950s and even previously, as yet hanging on by a thread; the pastrami and corned meat sandwiches at Jewish stores that are both passing on and hanging on for dear life; the shellfish (yuck) that you can eat while becoming inebriated out on the town with your perpetual crush; the restaurant show to a Scottish family, serving sourdough bread rolls for north of forty years; the road with just Ethiopian restaurants, all serving the same thing yet all with individual fans. (I suggest this one).

And obviously, there are the tacos. Not the tacos served by restaurants backed by flexible investments, however the ones that hemorrhage grease through their paper bag. The ones that all pregnant Los Angeles ladies grab en route to the hospital, standing in line while timing contractions. (This happens at Tito’s).

Dating in Los Angeles is abject loathsomeness, yet there are unimaginable minutes, similar to when I went on a climb with a rich TV maker who endlessly screamed and just wouldn’t stop screaming when we came across a rattlesnake nestled into a stone, sunning herself, disapproving of her own damn business. I realized screaming was not the way to go, because during the 1970s my father made me take classes at an old block working with a shockingly abundant rose garden that we just called “the science exhibition hall.” One class was dedicated to snakes and lizards; we wrapped baby garter snakes in our experience growing up clench hands, and watched our teacher get chomped in the neck by his pet boa, Glenda, despite the fact that he had placed her in the cooler for a couple of hours to allow her to relax. (Sorry).

“Go get an adult,” he said calmly to a class of seven year olds, as dark blood streamed down his neck. In this, he gave the ideal metaphor to the barely contained ferocity of Los Angeles during the 1970s. The city murmured with something magical and dangerous, spiritual and profane.

There were school excursions to the La Brea Tar Pits, with models of animals caught in the tar that I suppose was all the while rising underneath the sidewalk? Nobody really explained it, and we glossed over the trauma of elimination altogether. There were other school trips: to artists that lived on the opposite part of town, who made stained glass and reproduced cats, to peculiar cabins in the “forest” which were simply dusty oaks attempting to endure the dry spell. There was a camp guide who called himself “Steven Nature” who took us on 12 PM climbs and concocted the unfortunate rattlesnake I found when I went to bring a softball. The cooked pieces floated in water in an old milk carton that he passed around to us with an end goal to inspire us to eat it. “No one can tell when you could have to make due in the wild,” he said to pack of favored kids from the westside of Los Angeles, who were raised on Pop-tarts and twofold stuffed oreos.

Last week, I went to a Korean spa with a mineral water pool that air pockets up from the same tacky tar underground that took down the wooly mammoths. Is it remarkable that there is a mineral natural aquifer in Koreatown? Indeed, however at that point again no, because this is the city with shrieking wild parrots, packs of coyotes who hang out in the Gelson’s parking parcel and blue-bellied lizards you can mesmerize by stroking their stomachs. (Thanks for this tip, Steve Nature). Here small silver fish come to mate on the beach a couple of times each year, and individuals go to watch.

I go to this spa occasionally to soak in the water and get a layer of skin cleaned off by a woman named KJ. She inevitably shouts at me that I haven’t come back frequently enough, murmuring “too much skin” as she tosses containers of heated water on me while I lie on a table that is apparently made of a pool flotation gadget. Last week, she silently welcomed me with some the spiciest, gingeriest tea I had at any point tasted. “For me?” I asked confounded, because generosity is so befuddling nowadays. And to be sure it was for me. “For you,” she said, touching my cheek “to keep you healthy.” KJ lives in Los Angeles, one more reason to love Los Angeles.

There are earthquakes and flames and landslides, and at one time there was unbreathable air which was bad, yet it made the light more alarmingly striking. Lawrence Wechsler expounded on the sparkle of Los Angeles in 1998, and nobody has done it equity since. I won’t attempt, yet I will say this: I recall the light chasing me and my companions across the UCLA campus as we screamed while heading to some kind of 1970s development class, our moms pulling up the rear. I recall it would follow us when we would go to Swensen’s frozen yogurt afterward, barefoot, simply in our leotards. I was so glad for my adult frozen yogurt request — blackberry with chocolate jimmies — and as the afternoon light streamed through the window onto my Exceptionally Mature Frozen yogurt, the light also hit my companions’ faces which were shrouded in pepto bismol pink, a hazard of air pocket gum frozen yogurt. That second is suspended in amber, because the light was always warm, separated, a layer of honey.

Presently the daylight blinds me on my drive to work in the first part of the day and anesthetizes me on my commute home. At times when I stay in bed all day it pours over me while I wait for hummingbirds and butterflies to appear outside the window. The light always advises me that Los Angeles is a vortex you can’t really leave, or escape, contingent upon your perspective.

There are small signs in Santa Monica warning us about tsunamis, the chance of which long haul Angelenos are somewhat amped up for — rides up, after all. Then months ago, there actually was a tsunami warning, and the exceptionally youthful, extremely hot actor Valentina was dating started to explode a raft in his apartment. “For what reason are you doing that?” Valentina asked while calling him from her run on the beach.

“There’s a tsunami warning!” he yelled through the telephone. Valentina attempted to explain that this meant that surfers just had to be careful, yet the Hot Actor was from Pennsylvania and just couldn’t wrap his brain around everything. It was all too wild and dangerous.

Be that as it may, he can stay. There is space for everybody in Los Angeles, even very hot yet idiotic actors. Therefore Los Angeles never runs out of waiters.

As youngsters, there were outings to the twentieth Century Fox creation parcel, the sacred goal for hot stupid actors, where we saw completely constructed fake city roads. Years later, my companion Sharon and I walked down a twee road in upstate New York. She went to me and said “this seems to be the Fox part.” I gestured in agreement. It was only after a couple of hours later that we realized something was the issue with us. We gradually went to each other and said as one, “Wait… it’s the reverse way around… the Fox parcel seems to be the road. Right?”

In any case, this was the hazard of experiencing childhood in a city dedicated to fiction and big name. It reared a certain variant of narcissism that tainted everybody. At the point when I was seven, my father had to explain to me that not every person was Jewish, something I accepted because everybody on our road was, and all my companions were.

“No,” he said patiently while I sat on the banana seat of my bicycle, skeptical. “Not every person is, and in fact the vast majority are not.” I introduced my countervailing proof: how is that possible, when Danielle, Gabrielle and Valentina were all Jewish? How is that possible, when Liz across the road was Jewish? At the point when Dr. Pivko was Jewish? It never seemed obvious me that there was an alternate world external my reality, outside my road.

A couple of years later, after I saw my mom getting robbed, I was shipped off therapy to deal with the trauma. The therapist had immense abstract oil paintings on the wall, painted by her, and she signaled to them and said “you can create any sort of life you want.” This was an inadequate way to make me less scared of muggers, however it educated me to the ethos of Los Angeles at a youthful age: you can simply do what you want, be who you want. It’s okay. Drop in and rehash yourself.

Perhaps that’s the reason I allowed myself to have such a wild adolescence. So wild, that I can’t help thinking about what soul was watching out for me. Was it the city? I’m not blaming the oil-painting therapist exactly, yet what other place did I get the idea that I could sneak into clubs, or have romances with adult men, romances that could definitely get them jailed today? What other place did I get the idea that it was smart to ride in the bed of truck driven by (very) hot lifeguards, who parked at the beach, then, at that point, got me and ran straight into the ocean at 12 PM?

Where did I get the idea that could hit up parties at companions’ homes where the parents were simply … gone, as, for eternity? As in: the parents had moved, and passed on their children to fight for themselves. Where did I get the idea that my most memorable occupation ought to be as an entertainer at a Mexican restaurant, where the bartender slipped me Midori sours, turning my tongue green? Where did I get the idea that it was smart to visit a street pharmacist’s home, where I was asked to move a joint as a custom of initiation? My sweetheart look stricken and furtively moved it for me. He’s a Los Angeles cop now.

I was painting my own oil painting of a daily existence, and it was wild and dangerous and beautiful, very much like the city. Those years ought to have landed me on the back of a milk carton, yet some way or another I recently knew everything planned to be okay. Maybe there was a net of tar and daylight and saltwater and eucalyptus waiting to catch me. The city drove me to danger and then pulled me back, again and again, so I could experience another day to endure an earthquake, a fierce blaze, or meet more random coyotes and rattlesnakes, to pet more blue-bellied lizards.

I love you, Los Angeles. Happy birthday.

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