I got Covid for Christmas in California!
... because I A Little Bit live in Los Angeles?
It's Christmas Eve, and I a little bit live in Los Angeles. With Loralei, my sweetheart! [pictured]
Dear One,
I will be alone on Christmas this year.
But! At least I will be alone... in this place.
Go on. Tell me you know what kind of wreath this is.
The man of this apartment is festivity incarnate, and he is at home in the middle of the country with his family for the holidays, and I am here in Los Angeles and he has loaned this veritable Hallmark movie set to meeee.
So. I will be there wearing a pretty dress for myself and making cookies in the toaster oven. I might sing a sad holiday song in front of the Christmas tree and film it. WHO KNOWS.
Featuring my new motto: It's too late... LET'S DO IT! I write to you from my little desk in my little suite in my extremely overpriced cohousing unit in K-Town in Central-ish Los Angeles. If I stand on the very right side of my window... on a clear day... then... in the far, far distance... I can see... the Hollywood sign. THE DREAM, NO?
This is my first-ever foray into a bicoastal life. Can I make this work? Do I want to? I moved twice in three weeks. First cross country. Then cross town. It was tiring. But necessary. I am really Le Tired. But I also just had a week of Covid ravage my body, so, understandable? (Understandable, yes it's perfectly understandable.)
I used to abhor Los Angeles. I used to think of it as a whole town full of plastic people being rude to each other on the freeway. But that's a very popular sentiment for a New Yorker. I'd rather more nuance that that. It's not that it's not that. It's just not all that. It's not all anything. (What is all anything?!) There are real connections to be made here, and avant-garde immersive theatre clown blackjack subcultures, and people with good hearts who just hate driving across town.
I used to resent that about them so much. I would take the subway for 45 minutes to see anyone I love! I'd fume. (And I would.) But I do recognize that a) taking the subway and reading my book and writing my notes and complimenting people on their outfits ... is very different from stop-and-go, rude-as-you-please, worst-of-humanity traffic, and b) Los Angeles really is quite unreasonably large, which means c) it can be extremely aggravating to get across town. Still! I protest. People you ostensibly LOVE! Yes yes, but many people hate traffic and "wasting their time" more than they love people. (Oh, was that unfair? Well, I've gone and said it. It's been said. Saiddd.)
You cannot, said I to myself, move(ish) to Los Angeles resenting people for that. It is simply the Way That It Is, and you are the only one who will suffer if you're perenially mad at it. And then you'll rush home East, all bitter, to that depression-inducing New York winter you made the surprisingly hard decision to skip. How about this? How about, instead, you make peace with the fact that if you want to be with people (people in Echo Park and Tarzana and West Hollywood and Venice and North Hollywood), you will most of the time have to be the one who makes more of the effort?
GRUMBLE, said I. GRUMBLE GRUMBLE PFFHHTTTTT. RRRRRR. GHHHH. You are right, self.
Loralei and I have driven 400 miles since we've been here.
And this is how I've had a very lovely time, and reconnected with loads of old friends.
Accidentally twinning with Pamela Samuelson, love of my life whom you may recall from such BRILLIANT horizontal with lila episodes as 50. your pussy is not a sheath, and 51. take back the speculum
An incomplete list of things we have done, and places we have gone, Loralei and I:
made friends at the loveliest house concert party in Westwood with Michael Morgenstern (whom I met in Bali!)
bought sneakers at the Finest Thrift Store in All the Land in West Hollywood
cried at the end of Route 66 (which is a diner?) & screamed along Highway 1 (which is a catharsis?)
had boba on the second to last day in the life of my favorite boba shop, Teapop (whyyyyyy!)
attended a goodbye dinner for Helix in Echo Park (Silverlake?) & thoroughly enjoyed what Michael tells me is not REAL Mexican food
seen Killers of the Flower Moon in… Torrance? with my new frand James
witnessed Ibrahim AlHusseini’s awe-inspiring, epic, Important, surprisingly gripping glacier documentary Canary Movie at MOCA in DTLA (Downtown) with my talented and profilic MUA friend Kristine Lisman
spent almost as many nights crashing at friend’s places in my first 3 weeks as in my own bed
thrifted, flea marketed, & treasure-hunted (at Raven: things collected) in Silverlake (Echo Park?)
toured the lovely, handpainted, handcrafted home of the friend who gave me my first orgasm when I was 17 (!)
had the most delectable, dairy-free orange creamsicle milkshake
Proof of milkshake. / Donut Friend // DTLA
struggled to leave the (first) apartment, sick with mold-related autoimmune symptoms
cat-sat and hunted for murals in The Arts District
rode through Griffith Park, shivering, the night before Thanksgiving
bravest some spectacular winds (was miserable)
We have been lots of places.
We have driven hundreds of miles.
We have not taken the freeway.
We do not go above 45mph.
We are v. tired.
And v. sad.
And very happy.
We have welcomed ourselves to L.A.
Plot twist: Daddy Warbucks adopts Miss Hannigan, or, You go your whole life thinking you're an Annie only to discover you're Miss Hannigan in a boa. Snap by the delightful podcaster / therapist / sex educator Nicoletta Heidegger. (Here's our episode of her Sluts & Scholars podcast!)
I used to think ONE could only be bicoastal if ONE could afford to own a place in two places. Which, when I examine it, is a surprising belief for a long-time wandering traveler couchsurfing nomad person.
Of course, it's more that there are ways and ways, and one or few of those ways might work for me.
And darling, if you have ways...
Show me.
Big Love,Â
Lila
