Tessera
Last week I found myself sitting in a hotel room in Century City wondering if I would still hate living in LA as much now as I did back then.
There are still a lot of things I don't like about this place. I hate the smog. I hate the soul-crushing grind of stalled traffic on the 405. I hate the scrunchy, plasticized faces of the washed-out failed actors masquerading as morning news anchors on KTLA.
But on Wednesday I ate Korean street food with tiny silver chopsticks in a mall food court, surrounded by people who looked like me and spoke the same pidgin mashup of English and Korean that I do. On Thursday I ate enchiladas with an old friend in West Hollywood and then watched The Gays weave their intricate daily mating dance to remixed ABBA. On Friday I drove a long winding path through the spitting grey mist that passes for rain in the City of Angels to order fried chicken and waffles from an old black lady who I think was older than god.
I think Los Angeles may actually be a beautiful place. Or at least, it's a series of imperfect but unique places stitched together by concrete freeways and a common sense of Angelino identity, all of which hang together like an insane patchwork Guernica.
I think I missed the point. Sometimes I think I always miss the point.
There are still a lot of things I don't like about this place. I hate the smog. I hate the soul-crushing grind of stalled traffic on the 405. I hate the scrunchy, plasticized faces of the washed-out failed actors masquerading as morning news anchors on KTLA.
But on Wednesday I ate Korean street food with tiny silver chopsticks in a mall food court, surrounded by people who looked like me and spoke the same pidgin mashup of English and Korean that I do. On Thursday I ate enchiladas with an old friend in West Hollywood and then watched The Gays weave their intricate daily mating dance to remixed ABBA. On Friday I drove a long winding path through the spitting grey mist that passes for rain in the City of Angels to order fried chicken and waffles from an old black lady who I think was older than god.
I think Los Angeles may actually be a beautiful place. Or at least, it's a series of imperfect but unique places stitched together by concrete freeways and a common sense of Angelino identity, all of which hang together like an insane patchwork Guernica.
I think I missed the point. Sometimes I think I always miss the point.
posted by Peter at 11:07 PM
0 comments
