it is not a city of pedestrians, but it may be a pedestrian city
I'm on Baron's blog right now, as he tells the saga of the last five days in the local comedy scene:
I haven't been to LA since 1999, when I moved out there during my last summer off from college in order to shack up with this guy from the NYU debate team.
We had been meeting up at college tournaments throughout the Northeast and had never seen each other for more than a weekend. We developed this crazy summer-of-love plan and emailed about all the "crazy monkey lovin'" we were going to have (we never had, and never did).
When I arrived in LA, he arrived at the airport with another girl; they weren't involved, but it was meant as a signal. I moved into a separate bedroom in his apartment, paid rent, and barely saw him for three long months of incredible loneliness and broke-ass-bitchitude.
During this time I took acting classes, got dicked around by a con artist who wanted to be my "personal manager," showed my teenage lesbian superhero screenplay to the elderly film producer who was once behind the live action He-Man movie, who said he didn't believe in movies with female leads (much less lesbians), and made friends with a homeless woman named Roxanne who lived behind a Ralph's supermarket (I eventually snuck her into an internet cafe and helped her make a resume, of which I then printed 20 copies and put them in a nice folder, which I then watched her tuck into her shopping cart).
In the end, he didn't even drive me to the airport -- his new girlfriend did.
Less than a year later, he died of cancer.
Talk about mixed feelings. Dying of bone cancer at the age of 24 is the sort of thing that has long made people (Dostoevsky, anyone?) rail against a supposedly benevolent God.
But if someone is dead, are you supposed to pretend they weren't a dick to you? He was. We don't become saints when we die. We keep all our foibles.
So that's LA to me.
Also, if you attempt to walk anywhere in LA, people assume you're a hooker.
So I bombed/tanked/died three nights in a row. Lovely.In other news, this blog appears to have received an extra couple hundred visitors from Gawker today (hello!), and I'm heading out to LA at 7am this morning. I'll be on the left coast for non-comedy purposes, but plan to make an open mic appearance at some bar in Hollywood.
I hope the government doesn't google the word bomb and end up at my door to ask questions.
I haven't been to LA since 1999, when I moved out there during my last summer off from college in order to shack up with this guy from the NYU debate team.
We had been meeting up at college tournaments throughout the Northeast and had never seen each other for more than a weekend. We developed this crazy summer-of-love plan and emailed about all the "crazy monkey lovin'" we were going to have (we never had, and never did).
When I arrived in LA, he arrived at the airport with another girl; they weren't involved, but it was meant as a signal. I moved into a separate bedroom in his apartment, paid rent, and barely saw him for three long months of incredible loneliness and broke-ass-bitchitude.
During this time I took acting classes, got dicked around by a con artist who wanted to be my "personal manager," showed my teenage lesbian superhero screenplay to the elderly film producer who was once behind the live action He-Man movie, who said he didn't believe in movies with female leads (much less lesbians), and made friends with a homeless woman named Roxanne who lived behind a Ralph's supermarket (I eventually snuck her into an internet cafe and helped her make a resume, of which I then printed 20 copies and put them in a nice folder, which I then watched her tuck into her shopping cart).
In the end, he didn't even drive me to the airport -- his new girlfriend did.
Less than a year later, he died of cancer.
Talk about mixed feelings. Dying of bone cancer at the age of 24 is the sort of thing that has long made people (Dostoevsky, anyone?) rail against a supposedly benevolent God.
But if someone is dead, are you supposed to pretend they weren't a dick to you? He was. We don't become saints when we die. We keep all our foibles.
So that's LA to me.
Also, if you attempt to walk anywhere in LA, people assume you're a hooker.
posted by JenIsFamous at 7/14/2005 11:04:00 PM
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