"Breaking Bad" on AMC. Holy crap, you are an awesome show. I can love you with the pure, untainted love of someone who has not seen your next seven episodes beaten out on white boards. "Breaking Bad" is like the smoking hot Argentinian who hooks up with your on-again-off-again Significant Other when the S.O. studies abroad for a semester. You'll get back together when the S.O. comes back next September, but in the meantime, it is very flattering to realize your Significant Other has such awesome taste -- and is also so personally attractive that the S.O. can attract the attention of smoking hot Argentinians.
(In this metaphor, "Breaking Bad" is the smoking hot Argentinian; "Mad Men" is the sophomore at Bryn Mawr; AMC is the junior at Yale you met last summer when you interned at HBO; I am the roommate who buys bottles of Ballatore with my older sister's ID and happily sits up all night discussing whether AMC looks more like Kyle McLaughlin or Scott Bakula.)
"The Sarah Connor Chronicles" on Fox. If I were a Titaness, I would eat this show to hide it from my angry Titan spouse until one day it will spring, full grown, from my brow and be the most beloved of all my children. Wait, I think I'm combining Athena and Zeus. Never mind. Two bad ass ladies! One kinda mom aged! One kinda teen aged! Both frickin' bad ass! Both brunette! Awesome! (Also, if you notice, really deft structuring of the show so that we always have at least two ongoing threads -- John in high school, Sarah investigating SkyNet, plus an overarching ethical question. Love!)
The New Orthotics in My Shoes. The old orthotics were pretty good. I haven't wracked up my knees since I got them. (Except for that two mile walk on a beach full of pebbles in Ireland, but no orthotic was going to protect me from that.) The new orthotics are like sex on my feet. I put them in my shoes and suddenly there is the most delicious support underneath my arches, like wee brownies are carrying me through my day's errands. Also, these orthotics are made from hard plastic with purple felt lining, and probably won't fall apart in two years like my previous vinyl 'n foam 'n fiberglass pair.
(Anyone who tells you that nobody walks in L.A. is a liar. Because I did not wear a pair of orthotics to shit in 29 months by sitting behind the wheel of a car. )
Taking the 10 to the 405 to Sunset. I am pretty embarrassed I did not think of this sooner. But thanks to an invite to some joint @ La Cienega and Sunset, I decided to mix it up, and what do you know? Fast, easy shortcut to the mid-west side. Huzzah.
Almost Being Done with "Eclipse." I don't know when I've been more bored by a young adult novel. As of this morning, I've skipped over three hours with no regrets. Most lame development ever: Irresistible Bella wants to get it on with her sexy vampire Edward, but he's holding out UNTIL THEY'RE MARRIED. And I'm not talking about the dark gift. I'm talking about the sweaty, moan-y gift. Although Edward is also hoarding the dark gift until after the Big Day. Basically, nothing awesome can happen until they're married. P.S. The author is a Mormon. Coincidence? I think not.
(P.P.S. I have nothing against Mormons, except that apparently they write horrifically tedious young adult novels. I feel like I bought a ticket to "Cloverfield" and got tricked into watching "Pilgrim's Progress." But then I feel the same way about C.S. Lewis, so there you go.)
(P.P.P.S. Sorry for the excessive metaphoring. I promise, my next post will be completely literal.)
Showing posts with label Moving to Los Angeles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Moving to Los Angeles. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Friday, January 18, 2008
Yet More Not-Terribly-Original Advice
I've just eaten 16 Milk Duds. They were delicious, but that is Too Many Milk Duds. I wish I could go back in time and stop myself just I'm finishing Milk Dud 3 or 4, or even 11. Now my taste buds are numbed out from the sugar/confectionery wax combo and I have 200 worthless calories rattling around inside me.
From the little-discussed-downsides of Too Many Milk Duds, let's transition to the little-discussed-downsides of Los Angeles -- things that every newcomer will discover in time, but by the time you see the pattern, you'll be so over it that you never mention it when people ask you what Los Angeles is like.
1. Terrible desserts. This town does not get sugar at all. A handful of places get it right -- Vanilla Bakery, thank God, and Mozza -- but most of the time, you're going to be confronted with some kind of roasted fruit tart and/or too-dry cake-type item. And forget about ever eating a decent tiramisu or cannoli again. Outside of one or two small Italian-American community, neither can be found for love or money.
2. Inadequate Clothing Inventories. Cute non-chain stores don't seem to carry anything above a 6. Thinking through this logically, I suspect that, in fact, boutiques order clothing in the larger sizes, but these sell out faster than the 2s and 4s, which is why it seems like there's never anything else in stock.
2a. Also, clothing for the non-19-year-old is generally thin on the ground. Around the corner at the Third Street Promenade, there's not a single clothing store for the Rational Adult Man or Woman until you get to Macy's at the end of the block. It's half a mile of PacSun and Pink Ice and the like.
3. Second-Class Status Dining. In our two-year-and-counting, the stories of places with Great Service for Celebrities, Terrible Service for Ordinary People just keep racking up. I can't think how this is a viable business model -- there can't be more than 1000 A-, B-, C- and D-List celebrities in all of Los Angeles, and they can't be everywhere at once. Surely you have to build word of mouth among the regular folks. And yet from Chowhound to Citysearch to Yelp to, sadly, our own experience at Melisse, the disappointments keep coming.
3a. Also, way too many restaurants are straight up terrible, and yet continue to survive on buzz and/or location. Nowhere is this condition worse than in our own Santa Monica, which supports both Boa, maybe the most worthless steak house in existence, and Ivy at the Shore, which is basically Sarabeth's with insane prices.
4. Many, many, many aspiring actors. I wish them all the best and hope for good things for all of them, but it wears you out after a while.
5. Insufficient stock of condominiums. Santa Monica is especially hamstrung because any building with enough charm to survive a conversion to condominiums will also have enough rent-controlled-tenants that no such conversion could ever go through. (That's the case in our building, for example.) Since rent control does not apply to new construction, I can see the attraction of putting up whole buildings worth of units that can rent for thousands of dollars a month. But at the same time, all of Los Angeles seems fiercely attached to the dream of owning a single family home -- surely the least efficient use of the area's scarce land and scarcer resources. And I'm not just saying that because I want to buy a condo.
6. Hard-to-Find Everything. After years of listening to my parents rattle off Chicago addresses in accordance with that city's carved-in-stone numerical grid, I admit: Los Angeles street-level geography is a nightmare. People who've lived here for 15 years still end up using a GPS unit to find their way around. In truth, I think there is some kind of grid, but since the numbers are not clearly marked on either buildings or street signs, it's almost impossible to track.
6b. Many, many stores like to create a significant street presence by building right up to the sidewalk, and then tucking the parking behind or underneath. I agree, that probably makes for a better streetscape, but the first three or four times I visit any major retailer, I inevitably end up driving in half-mile-circuits, trying to locate the tastefully concealed entrance to the garage. I only figured out how to park at Walgreen's this October. No, really.
6c. God help you if you have any kind of claustrophobia issues and you've parked in an underground garage. When they work well, they're the perfect solution to L.A.'s abundance of cars -- and I'm always happy to pay for parking. But if something goes wrong or traffic spikes, it's hell three stories under ground. See also: Whole Foods on New Year's Eve; Beverly Hills Municipal Parking at lunchtime.
7. Isolation. The obvious solution is to have friends already living out here, but that's not always so easy to arrange. A good second choice would be some kind of pre-existing job or school. USC picked up the slack for me, and then some, in a way that made the ridiculous tuition almost worthwhile. Since I started working, my various internships have gone a long way to fleshing out the rest of my social life in a very promising fashion. Meanwhile, MG has picked up some like-minded individuals (hi, Dirk!) and he's got various old friends here and a short phone call away. But if we didn't have these support structures in place, I don't know if we could have lasted a month, much less a year.
From the little-discussed-downsides of Too Many Milk Duds, let's transition to the little-discussed-downsides of Los Angeles -- things that every newcomer will discover in time, but by the time you see the pattern, you'll be so over it that you never mention it when people ask you what Los Angeles is like.
1. Terrible desserts. This town does not get sugar at all. A handful of places get it right -- Vanilla Bakery, thank God, and Mozza -- but most of the time, you're going to be confronted with some kind of roasted fruit tart and/or too-dry cake-type item. And forget about ever eating a decent tiramisu or cannoli again. Outside of one or two small Italian-American community, neither can be found for love or money.
2. Inadequate Clothing Inventories. Cute non-chain stores don't seem to carry anything above a 6. Thinking through this logically, I suspect that, in fact, boutiques order clothing in the larger sizes, but these sell out faster than the 2s and 4s, which is why it seems like there's never anything else in stock.
2a. Also, clothing for the non-19-year-old is generally thin on the ground. Around the corner at the Third Street Promenade, there's not a single clothing store for the Rational Adult Man or Woman until you get to Macy's at the end of the block. It's half a mile of PacSun and Pink Ice and the like.
3. Second-Class Status Dining. In our two-year-and-counting, the stories of places with Great Service for Celebrities, Terrible Service for Ordinary People just keep racking up. I can't think how this is a viable business model -- there can't be more than 1000 A-, B-, C- and D-List celebrities in all of Los Angeles, and they can't be everywhere at once. Surely you have to build word of mouth among the regular folks. And yet from Chowhound to Citysearch to Yelp to, sadly, our own experience at Melisse, the disappointments keep coming.
3a. Also, way too many restaurants are straight up terrible, and yet continue to survive on buzz and/or location. Nowhere is this condition worse than in our own Santa Monica, which supports both Boa, maybe the most worthless steak house in existence, and Ivy at the Shore, which is basically Sarabeth's with insane prices.
4. Many, many, many aspiring actors. I wish them all the best and hope for good things for all of them, but it wears you out after a while.
5. Insufficient stock of condominiums. Santa Monica is especially hamstrung because any building with enough charm to survive a conversion to condominiums will also have enough rent-controlled-tenants that no such conversion could ever go through. (That's the case in our building, for example.) Since rent control does not apply to new construction, I can see the attraction of putting up whole buildings worth of units that can rent for thousands of dollars a month. But at the same time, all of Los Angeles seems fiercely attached to the dream of owning a single family home -- surely the least efficient use of the area's scarce land and scarcer resources. And I'm not just saying that because I want to buy a condo.
6. Hard-to-Find Everything. After years of listening to my parents rattle off Chicago addresses in accordance with that city's carved-in-stone numerical grid, I admit: Los Angeles street-level geography is a nightmare. People who've lived here for 15 years still end up using a GPS unit to find their way around. In truth, I think there is some kind of grid, but since the numbers are not clearly marked on either buildings or street signs, it's almost impossible to track.
6b. Many, many stores like to create a significant street presence by building right up to the sidewalk, and then tucking the parking behind or underneath. I agree, that probably makes for a better streetscape, but the first three or four times I visit any major retailer, I inevitably end up driving in half-mile-circuits, trying to locate the tastefully concealed entrance to the garage. I only figured out how to park at Walgreen's this October. No, really.
6c. God help you if you have any kind of claustrophobia issues and you've parked in an underground garage. When they work well, they're the perfect solution to L.A.'s abundance of cars -- and I'm always happy to pay for parking. But if something goes wrong or traffic spikes, it's hell three stories under ground. See also: Whole Foods on New Year's Eve; Beverly Hills Municipal Parking at lunchtime.
7. Isolation. The obvious solution is to have friends already living out here, but that's not always so easy to arrange. A good second choice would be some kind of pre-existing job or school. USC picked up the slack for me, and then some, in a way that made the ridiculous tuition almost worthwhile. Since I started working, my various internships have gone a long way to fleshing out the rest of my social life in a very promising fashion. Meanwhile, MG has picked up some like-minded individuals (hi, Dirk!) and he's got various old friends here and a short phone call away. But if we didn't have these support structures in place, I don't know if we could have lasted a month, much less a year.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
I'm 100% Positive the Strike Will Go Until June*
Yes, I was wrong about last night's "Project Runway." I was positive that this week's challenge would be a return of the popular make-an-outfit-from-the-stuff-in-your-apartment. I was way, way off.
But I've never been happier to be wrong. For one thing, it reminded me that I can't predict the future, and proved that "Project Runway" can still surprised and delight me. (Oh, brother, can it! Between the Sweet P/Rami show down and the Kit/Ricky debacle? Delicious!) Ricky, btw, doesn't really bother me, but I admit, I have no idea why he's still on the show. I think it has to be a question of story arc. This wasn't his week. There wasn't a moment or a dramatic reversal that would justify taking down the Moistest Designer.
In a similar vein, rumor has it that the DGA has negotiated a deal with the AMPTP, and is now in talks with the WGA to see if they can be brought on board. My first thought is that this will never work, but again, I would be delighted to be wrong.
Which brings me to today's piece of Advice for the Aspiring Whatsit** Who's Thinking of Moving to L.A.:
Let Los Angeles surprise you.
When you start talking about moving to L.A., you'll hear a lot of conventional wisdom on the subject. My beloved Chicago Improv Network routinely bursts into brief storms of Why-Los-Angeles-Sucks-Balls-and-I-Would-Never-Move-There. Traffic, heat, smog, blah blah blah.
The city has some drawbacks. Every city does. But every city has its perks, if you let yourself see them. If you don't, you'll never be able to think of that place as home. (It's the same principle by which we fall in love with vacation spots. That pang of regret as you're leaving, and the brief, crazy thought of moving back there permanently? Both signs that you've noticed a few of that place's unique perks.)
Hands down, my favorite thing about L.A. is the light. It's the light of Richard Diebenkorn's Ocean Park paintings, hot, bright and shadowless for four to six hours every day. It makes whites shout, blues glow, oranges burn. It forces me to wear sunscreen, sunglasses and sometimes even a hat, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.
I'm also fond of the utterly unmidwestern plant life here, including a weird, spirally bush we call Gilliam Shrubs because they look like something out of Monty Python, and the wonderfully car-friendly terrain. After a month out here, the streets of Chicago look like the narrow alleys of a medieval Italian mountain town.
But in the end, you have to find your own favorite things -- but at the same time, you'll find your own way of thinking of Los Angeles as your home.
* I'm hoping glaringly wrong predictions comes in threes. Or at least twos.
** I came out as a screenwriter, but I can't think why this advice wouldn't help an actor, director or whathaveyou.
But I've never been happier to be wrong. For one thing, it reminded me that I can't predict the future, and proved that "Project Runway" can still surprised and delight me. (Oh, brother, can it! Between the Sweet P/Rami show down and the Kit/Ricky debacle? Delicious!) Ricky, btw, doesn't really bother me, but I admit, I have no idea why he's still on the show. I think it has to be a question of story arc. This wasn't his week. There wasn't a moment or a dramatic reversal that would justify taking down the Moistest Designer.
In a similar vein, rumor has it that the DGA has negotiated a deal with the AMPTP, and is now in talks with the WGA to see if they can be brought on board. My first thought is that this will never work, but again, I would be delighted to be wrong.
Which brings me to today's piece of Advice for the Aspiring Whatsit** Who's Thinking of Moving to L.A.:
Let Los Angeles surprise you.
When you start talking about moving to L.A., you'll hear a lot of conventional wisdom on the subject. My beloved Chicago Improv Network routinely bursts into brief storms of Why-Los-Angeles-Sucks-Balls-and-I-Would-Never-Move-There. Traffic, heat, smog, blah blah blah.
The city has some drawbacks. Every city does. But every city has its perks, if you let yourself see them. If you don't, you'll never be able to think of that place as home. (It's the same principle by which we fall in love with vacation spots. That pang of regret as you're leaving, and the brief, crazy thought of moving back there permanently? Both signs that you've noticed a few of that place's unique perks.)
Hands down, my favorite thing about L.A. is the light. It's the light of Richard Diebenkorn's Ocean Park paintings, hot, bright and shadowless for four to six hours every day. It makes whites shout, blues glow, oranges burn. It forces me to wear sunscreen, sunglasses and sometimes even a hat, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.
I'm also fond of the utterly unmidwestern plant life here, including a weird, spirally bush we call Gilliam Shrubs because they look like something out of Monty Python, and the wonderfully car-friendly terrain. After a month out here, the streets of Chicago look like the narrow alleys of a medieval Italian mountain town.
But in the end, you have to find your own favorite things -- but at the same time, you'll find your own way of thinking of Los Angeles as your home.
* I'm hoping glaringly wrong predictions comes in threes. Or at least twos.
** I came out as a screenwriter, but I can't think why this advice wouldn't help an actor, director or whathaveyou.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Step One: Visit Honda of Lisle. Ask for Manny.
I recently stumbled onto the blog of a couple of Midwesterners who came out to L.A. last summer, hoping to jump start their careers. The last entry, dated a week or two ago, announces that they're headed back to their hometown.
The goals that brought them out to L.A. no longer any appeal, and plainly put, they're both more than a little homesick.
MG & I have friends -- folks we like and respect -- who came out here before us, and headed back to Chicago before we'd signed our lease. Their reasons for going out, and coming back, were rational and considered, and we know a dozen more people just like them.
I admire them all for their bravery. Moving to a new city to try something out, and knowing when it's time to retreat are both remarkable feats, like finding the courage to go to college far from home, or breaking up with your impressive boyfriend when you realize he's a jackass.
We pulled off the first half so far -- two years, five months and counting. The second half? If the time comes, I trust we'll figure it out.
In the meantime, we can't go through our lives, waiting for the sudden realization that this was all a terrible mistake. We've had to build a life here, even if it's not going to work out in the long run.
My Irish grandmother would not approve. She was a world-class Preparer for Disaster, with a six-by-four foot cupboard stocked with emergency supplies of generic butter cookies and peanut butter. And she always kept an eye peeled for ill tidings. She used to listen to a police scanner radio in the evenings, ears pricked for any word of misdoings in our corner of Oak Park. If a squirrel so much as farted in the night, she'd be on the phone to our house -- just five blocks away -- to warn us to be careful when we went to put the car in the garage.
When we first thought of moving to L.A., I searched high and low for blogs or websites that might prepare us for the change, and came up woefully short. I found Franklin Avenue, which isn't quite the Welcome to Los Angeles gateway I needed, but it proved that sane people live in this city and have ordinary lives, almost entirely free of crack addiction and prostitutes. (Even if it didn't offer me a cookie and a glass of milk, Franklin Avenue is smart, well-written blog and highly entertaining. I recommend it whole-heartedly.)
Add to this that of late, I've started to think this blog could use a little bit more direction. Not a lot more. God forbid. If I can't ramble on my blog, the top of my head might well blow right off. But I'm thinking it might be time for me to start putting up the kind of posts I would have killed for when we were trying to make this decision.
The first, and most essential piece of information I can possible provide someone thinking of moving to L.A.:
Buy a car.
Even if your move is months or years away, buy a car. A good car, well-maintained, with excellent gas mileage and a fully-functioning air conditioner. We bought a 2001 Certified Used Honda Civic in 2004, almost 18 months before we ultimately moved to L.A. For one thing, it spread out the expense of the move over a longer window of time. For another, it let me establish a good driving record in the marginally less-insane city of Chicago before moving to Los Angeles.
More importantly, buying the car started to prepare me for a mindset that has proven invaluable since we moved here. There are driving days and walking days. The point is, condense all your car-centric errands into as few days as possible. Hit Costco on your way home from work, schedule lunches with your Mid-Wilshire friends for the same day as your haircut in West Hollywood. At the same time, try to bundle together local errands into a single neighborhood walk.
You can't spend your whole life in the car. It will drive you insane. At the same time, you can't not have a car in Los Angeles. Maybe someday, when at last there's a light rail line all the way to the sea, but right now: No.
So you have to make a point of balancing the two extremes. During the semester, every class day is a driving day, so I've tried to make the rest of the week as pedestrian as possible. With the spectre of employment looming, I will probably be reduced to pedestrian weekends, but even that's something. I already take pedestrian weekends pretty seriously, riding public transit to haircut appointments just because I can.
If you work it right, eventually it's a treat to be in the car, because you're not on foot. And it's a treat to be on foot, because you're not in the car. Or put it another way: Eventually you get sick of both. Uh, yeah.
Tomorrow: More advice of dubious value
The goals that brought them out to L.A. no longer any appeal, and plainly put, they're both more than a little homesick.
MG & I have friends -- folks we like and respect -- who came out here before us, and headed back to Chicago before we'd signed our lease. Their reasons for going out, and coming back, were rational and considered, and we know a dozen more people just like them.
I admire them all for their bravery. Moving to a new city to try something out, and knowing when it's time to retreat are both remarkable feats, like finding the courage to go to college far from home, or breaking up with your impressive boyfriend when you realize he's a jackass.
We pulled off the first half so far -- two years, five months and counting. The second half? If the time comes, I trust we'll figure it out.
In the meantime, we can't go through our lives, waiting for the sudden realization that this was all a terrible mistake. We've had to build a life here, even if it's not going to work out in the long run.
My Irish grandmother would not approve. She was a world-class Preparer for Disaster, with a six-by-four foot cupboard stocked with emergency supplies of generic butter cookies and peanut butter. And she always kept an eye peeled for ill tidings. She used to listen to a police scanner radio in the evenings, ears pricked for any word of misdoings in our corner of Oak Park. If a squirrel so much as farted in the night, she'd be on the phone to our house -- just five blocks away -- to warn us to be careful when we went to put the car in the garage.
When we first thought of moving to L.A., I searched high and low for blogs or websites that might prepare us for the change, and came up woefully short. I found Franklin Avenue, which isn't quite the Welcome to Los Angeles gateway I needed, but it proved that sane people live in this city and have ordinary lives, almost entirely free of crack addiction and prostitutes. (Even if it didn't offer me a cookie and a glass of milk, Franklin Avenue is smart, well-written blog and highly entertaining. I recommend it whole-heartedly.)
Add to this that of late, I've started to think this blog could use a little bit more direction. Not a lot more. God forbid. If I can't ramble on my blog, the top of my head might well blow right off. But I'm thinking it might be time for me to start putting up the kind of posts I would have killed for when we were trying to make this decision.
The first, and most essential piece of information I can possible provide someone thinking of moving to L.A.:
Buy a car.
Even if your move is months or years away, buy a car. A good car, well-maintained, with excellent gas mileage and a fully-functioning air conditioner. We bought a 2001 Certified Used Honda Civic in 2004, almost 18 months before we ultimately moved to L.A. For one thing, it spread out the expense of the move over a longer window of time. For another, it let me establish a good driving record in the marginally less-insane city of Chicago before moving to Los Angeles.
More importantly, buying the car started to prepare me for a mindset that has proven invaluable since we moved here. There are driving days and walking days. The point is, condense all your car-centric errands into as few days as possible. Hit Costco on your way home from work, schedule lunches with your Mid-Wilshire friends for the same day as your haircut in West Hollywood. At the same time, try to bundle together local errands into a single neighborhood walk.
You can't spend your whole life in the car. It will drive you insane. At the same time, you can't not have a car in Los Angeles. Maybe someday, when at last there's a light rail line all the way to the sea, but right now: No.
So you have to make a point of balancing the two extremes. During the semester, every class day is a driving day, so I've tried to make the rest of the week as pedestrian as possible. With the spectre of employment looming, I will probably be reduced to pedestrian weekends, but even that's something. I already take pedestrian weekends pretty seriously, riding public transit to haircut appointments just because I can.
If you work it right, eventually it's a treat to be in the car, because you're not on foot. And it's a treat to be on foot, because you're not in the car. Or put it another way: Eventually you get sick of both. Uh, yeah.
Tomorrow: More advice of dubious value
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