Bringing You What Keeps Me Awake since 2008.
In my travels, it seems the people who tend to talk the most shit about L.A. are mostly talentless, humorless, unintelligent and uniformed people from nowhere places who have enough time on their hands to sit and dissect what life in L.A. must be like even though they’ve never lived here.
The following is a quick list summarizing what various groups of these people ‘think’ or say about LA:
The Elderly: LA’s dirty and dangerous, prone to earthquakes, mudslides and fires and will eventually break off from the rest of North America and fall into the sea.
Heartlanders think we’re fake.
Tourists think we’re snobby.
Fat people think we’re too skinny.
Many Artists and Musicians from other places think we’re sellouts.
Environmentalists say it’s polluted.
Republicans say it’s too liberal and I’ve heard conservatives call it ‘the land of fruits and nuts.’
Jesus freaks and Mormon’s think it’s a den of sin.
New Yorkers say it’s no Manhattan and racists think we’ve been overrun by Mexicans.
Nobody’s really from here. Every waiter is a wanna-be actor. Every video store clerk a budding director and every attractive young girl who moves here, one line of bad coke away from prostituting herself on some sleazy B movie producer’s faux Eames sofa.
And I’d argue with these close-minded, bigoted assholes, but they’re right.
TRUE. LA is dirty and dangerous, but not nearly as dirty as let’s say, Cleveland. And criminals here don’t have to wait for you to get off at their stop. It’s a driving city, so the crime comes to you. This sucks, yes, but kids are also shooting up schools in the boonies. Even the Amish aren’t safe. Crime is everywhere. So best protect ya’ neck.
TRUE. There are mudslides and wildfires and this whole place will eventually break off into the sea. The very idea excites the shit out of me. Nothing humanizes us more than a hard, sharp jerk of the earth, a rumble that puts into the streets or into each other’s arms. To realize death is to realize our own humanity and I think most people need some shaking up once in a while to understand the beauty in life.
TRUE. We’re snobby because expect a lot. Many of us dropped everything, picked up our shit and moved here with a dream and no money and heaps of uncertainty. So you’re here on vacation from Tuscaloosa, Alabama, that’s great! Do you have anything else interesting to share with me? No. But ya’ say you’re going to Magic Mountain tomorrow. Awesome! No, I don’t know where the nearest cool sports bar is, or who makes a mean Long Island, but nice to meet you. I have to go home now and write and shoot and edit and paint and finish that one track and write some more. So long.
TRUE. There are a ton of posers roaming this town. But to call them fake, is to acknowledge their existence, implying that they’ve affected your life in some way. Don’t worry about them. Worry about you.
TRUE. We’re skinny sellouts. Don’t blame me. Blame my metabolism, my boundless energy. Blame my tenacity. Blame opportunity. Blame the reality that if I don’t sell anything or work for anybody, I won’t eat, and because of this have many times had to skip a meal.
That reminds me… I don’t make shit off this site, but I’ve tapped into a pretty crazy youth culture/yuppie US/UK/Euro-Asian-Aussie crossover demographic. So if you’re a corporate sponsor with cash burning a hole in your pocket and an severe handicap in connecting with the elusive 16-40 angry, streetwise and educated demographic, a designer who has some extra clothes or shoes lying around (M shirt, 12 shoe, 33/32 pant), or a record label who thinks you’ve signed somebody worth listening to, let’s talk.
TRUE. The place is crazy polluted. Smog is fucked. Flying back into the city from somewhere with clean air and dropping through that brown soot hood in the sky can bring a tears to your eyes in more ways than one, and unfortunately, the act of selling our souls inevitably leads to the creation of a some of that pollution. We have to get to meetings somehow, so we drive there, but we also drive more hybrids than anybody else in America so until the government helps implement the Electric Recharge Grid Operator for EV’s… suck it.
TRUE. We’re liberal because, in the end, we believe in your individual rights and freedoms. We give a shit what happens to all of you, if only because we’re forced to share this planet with you.
TRUE. We’re crazy. When the opportunity arises we will dance and drink and fuck, sacrifice our souls to the lord of darkness and set the night ablaze. You might to if you put down the Bibles, strapped on some heels and mixed yourself a stiff Pim’s cup.
TRUE. LA is no Manhattan. And though Manhattan is still king, it seems only kings can afford to live there now. FYI New York peeps: My friends are about to give up this dope rent-controlled 2 bedroom in Koreatown for a song so hit me if you’re interested.
TRUE. There are lots of Mexicans here. We’ve also got Armenians and Russians, Iranians, El Salvadorians, Guatemalans, Indians, Pakistani’s, Bangladeshi’s, and crazy amounts of Asians. You name ‘em, we’ve got ‘em and these folks are just one more reason to love LA. If you’re down with whites only, better find a time machine.
Many waiters are actors, video store clerks aspiring directors and people with questionable motives and morals are everywhere.
We all have to start somewhere. We all have lessons to learn and many of us will never learn them. It took 70 million years of evolution for sharks to find perfection, so give us a fucking break.
So now that I’m done substantiating these accusations, here’s are some of the things I love about LA:
Let’s start simple…
The sun. Though I hide from it much of the time, and it can often make one as crazy as a relentless February Lake Michigan wind, having the option to walk out my door every morning and not be pelted by rain, snow or baseball-size hail is always nice.
The ladies. They’re at the gas station, Target, and working the Hot Dog on a Stick stand. They’re everywhere! And when my day is sucking dicks, nothing turns it around faster than the sight of a 6’ raven-haired, blue-eyed, 22 year old Czech girl who threw on short shorts, a tank top and heels to wear to Trader Joe’s on quest to pick up a box of veggie corndogs. It’s ridiculous, hilarious and excites me because I am a simple and sick cliché beast of a man.
Taco stands. Late night food has replaced much of the booze for me, is probably worse for me, but I love being able to decide I want a shrimp taco, a really tasty authentic shrimp taco, at 4 a.m., and have no problem procuring one. It’s a simple pleasure.
Late night crazies at the taco stand. Whenever I feel the world is falling asleep, I need not driver further than the closest roach coach after 12 a.m. to be reminded that the world never sleeps and is actually in a constant state of chaos.
A recent conversation I overheard at Cactus Taqueria on Vine:
GUY ONE (calmly): ‘I didn’t piss on your car, man.’
GUY TWO (irate): I just saw you piss on my car!’
GUY ONE (defensive): I didn’t piss on your car. Why would I piss on your car?!
GUY TWO: I don’t know, but I just saw you piss on my car!
GUY ONE (soberly): I didn’t piss on your car, dude.
Guy Two waves Guy One off, and stalks off, mad as hell. I turn to Guy One and notice that his fly is wide open, his dong practically hanging out.
ME: So you didn’t piss on his car?
GUY ONE (taken aback): No, man. That guy’s crazy. I didn’t piss on his car.
ME (looking to his fly): Then why is your fly open?
Guy One looks down at his open fly and back up to me with a shit-eating grin. Busted.
The doers. The 5% of people in LA who are actually doing shit, are many times, doing great shit and there are too many names to list here.
Free shit. LA is the schwag capital of the world. How is it, you ask, that one goes on unemployment and ends up living a better quality of life than when one has a job? Because the less one works, the more time one has to hit up events doling out catered gourmet food, top shelf liquor, free clothes, shoes, movies, disk drives, hats, candy, music, massages, hair care products, body oils, baby food and hand jobs. I even got a free pair of roller skates once. Retarded.
In n’ out. Double Double with cheese please!
Surfing. Even though I’ve only gone once, I like the option of being able to go if I want to. Like we come from water, so it’s our nature to be one with it, ya know? And that one time when I was in Venice waiting for my first wave while this cute surfer chick held my board (so I wouldn’t spend half my day paddling in circles) I felt that shit for real. And for that moment I.WAS.THE.SEA.
La Poubelle. Used to drink there alone, a lot, and loved it. Off-peak weeknights, there always seems to be a great conversation if you want it, but if you don’t, you can just stare into your wine, into the back of your mind, and let the spirits take hold.
Cinespia. Death and movies, together in one place = awesome. In France, the cemetery is not only seen as a place to bury people, but also a place to meet for lunch, a place to read and relax. In America, it’s pretty much a place you go to weep. Americans don’t realize their own mortality enough. Other cultures shape their lives with respect for the end by squeezing the most life out of each day. But for some reason the American ego rarely allows most to comprehend the fact that there’s anything beyond their bed, their desk, their couch or the ‘big game’ on Sunday.
Actors. They crack me up. They wait in line for hours in the hot sun just to get the chance to be a spokesperson for herpes medication or to get the ‘guest star’ slot for an episode of some lame CW show. In no other industry can you find delusion executed with such consistency. They practice their parts for the acting class next door on my front lawn and so many are profoundly bad, yet they refuse to give up. But you know what, I’ve got to admire them for it. At least they’re not sitting on their couches watching ‘Ellen’ all day, or working in some cubicle shorting the sickly on their medical coverage.
Being constantly surprised by the quality of the LA art and music scene. I guess it’s because I’d taught myself to expect nothing. When I moved here, there was no DJ scene, a lot of mediocre bands, and only a handful of great artists were showing it seemed, but the shit has bloomed and I’ve been getting my mind blown consistently lately.
I feel like New York places expectations on its artists to somehow be the ‘best’ with regards to it past reputation as the Mecca of the American art world, and in the end, it probably stifles a lot of creativity. Not all artists have balls like watermelons. Most of the best artists I know have no idea how great they are, and attempting to carry a weight like that on their shoulders might just render their good hand helpless.
Snowboarding. You can drive to out Big Bear and be back in time for a Flux Screening.
Flux Screenings. Going to these screenings has become the highlight of my week. I hadn’t heard about them until my strange and talented friend Chris Milk (name drop) was screening his latest Gnarls Barkley video at their screening series at the Hammer. It was a beautiful LA night. Shepard Fairy and Spank Rock were spinning in the courtyard. They screened videos from No Age, NASA, Brighton Port Authority, TV on the Radio, Tricky, Fujiya Miyagi, and some shorts, including a super dope one entitled ‘Made in Queens’ about Trinidadian kids who trick out their bikes with crazy huge stereo systems. I got inspired, ran into some of the most talented people I know and rode home with a boner on a mission to work even harder at everything I do.
After that I went to the screening ‘Megunica,’ the documentary about Argentinean graffiti animation artist Blu and to see the super rad Swedish child vampire click, ‘Let The Right One In,’ last Tuesday night. Some douchebag threw a quarter off the balcony to get his main floor friend’s attention and clocked me straight in the eyeball. It’s still scraped and bloody and hurts, but I’ll be there next week for the screening of Synecdoche by Charlie Kaufman with bells on. Thanks Flux for tearing me away from my computer for a couple hours a week, and thanks to security for tossing that quarter-throwing cocksucker to the curb.
Rocket Video. Awesome movies. Efficient and engaging movie nerd staff. I go there to clear my head, browsing sometimes for an hour at a time and nobody bothers me. But if I I’m feeling particularly social and decide strike up a conversation about the final season of ‘The Wire,’ I’m sure to be there ‘til closing time. They also have a vast DVD porn collection if you’re some sort of technophobic lover of the dirty.
Ghetto birds don’t make me feel any safer, but there’s something exciting about a 5 kazillion kilowatt light beaming through my kitchen window as I’m making a midnight snack in my black dragon kimono or blinding the driver of the Super Shuttle that’s dropping off my out of town guests at my place for their first visit to Los Angeles.
Goi Cuon at Pho Café, Prosciutto sandwiches at Larchmont Wine and Cheese, the sound of west coast icicles being beaten by warm Santa Ana winds, after hours in Thai Town, Sunday brunch at Chateau Marmont, hikes through Griffith Park, the view from the roof of the Standard in any state of mind, El Matador Beach (with or sans clothing)…
Even after composing this epic, I feel I’ve sold my city short. I could easily spend the rest of the day at this computer listing the things I love about LA, but I have to go cut my reel so I can gets me some work, get money and make rent, so I don’t have to move away to some shit city and start hating on LA.
In order to capture the essence of the “journey,” and fully embrace the chaos, I have planned little more than to meet up with some amazing people and see where the asphalt leads.
True to the nature of Sleep Never, anything can happen, and on the flip side, I’m sure at times, very little will.
Regardless, I quit my job yesterday, packed up my life and in the next six weeks, will be crossing this entire once glorious country in planes, trains, automobiles and a giant luxury tour bus packed with good friends and gear.
Feel free to join me from your couch, cubicle, barstool or the comfort of your own bed whenever you find the time. I’ll be here.
As for today, time to kill and strapped with gear, I wrote and shot and scored this “found” piece on the train ride from LA to San Diego.
Sure, the voice over is… you know… as voice over’s can be, and sort of “beat,” and the beats had their own beats, sure, but they didn’t have DV’s, Macbooks and Reason so…
Choo fucking choo.
