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