Flee from the bright lights of Los Angeles

Monday, December 7, 1998

Flee from the bright lights of Los Angeles

CITY: Despite excitement, it’s time to escape world dominated by
Hollywood

When I tell out-of-state folks that I go to UCLA, their eyes
grow wide and they applaud – that is, until they remember that
going to UCLA requires one to actually reside in Los Angeles on a
somewhat permanent basis. "How on earth can you live there?" they
ask, baffled. "I hate Los Angeles. It’s so gross!"

"Yeah, kinda," I admit. But it’s not gross to me anymore, just
annoying. I don’t even mind the pollution; I hardly notice it,
except for when I jog to the gym between 4 and 6 p.m. My lungs
nearly deflate, but soon enough I reach the safe haven of sweaty,
recycled gym air and all is well.

This city is not at all gross or ugly. We have flowers in bloom
and healthy trees all year long. We have lots of art. We have
bright sun, high clouds and enough beach to keep Mr. Sandman busy
for years. We supposedly have beautiful people and nice cars and
cool clothes. Yippee.

Allow me to be sincere for one split second (any longer just
might kill me). I truly do appreciate much of what Los Angeles has
to offer, especially its diversity – not just a diversity of
people, but of things to do. Two weekends ago, during three short
days I heard Max Kennedy speak at the Museum of Tolerance, viewed
an abstract modern dance performance followed by a discussion at
the Getty Center, taught art to abused children, watched my college
football team smother our biggest rival, spent a few hours at the
bookstore reading good books and picking out early Chanukah
presents, rented a foreign film and ate at three different
restaurants. The weekend before, I went to a different bar every
night. Every Thursday I memorize LA Weekly wishing I had the money
and time to explore every cultural event Los Angeles boasts.

But most of the time I think this place is overrated. There’s
the traffic, low-quality public schools, apathetic teachers,
homelessness, high prices and overcrowded everything. Who wants to
raise their kids in a city where it takes 20 minutes to drive 3
miles to get a pack of Oreos?

All big cities have their problems. To some in Los Angeles,
however, the biggest problem seems to be that Spago was overbooked,
or that their pager battery ran out so they missed the 411 about
the latest premiere.

Los Angeles is all glitz and no guts. Founded on the
entertainment industry, it lacks substance. Movie moguls filming
some crappy episode of "Teeny Bopper High School" on our campus
bellow at me to "move off the set." Oh, I’m sorry – am I in your
way? I was simply trying to reach my classroom to get the education
I pay $5,000 a year for. My bad.

Everyone here is an aspiring something: director, musician,
comedian, model. This city is full of people waiting to be
discovered, counting the eons until they make it big. Whether
they’ve moved here from the midwest in hopes of finding stardom, or
whether they are fifth generation Beverly Hillbillies, they bore
me.

When I meet someone who tells me they want to be a blah blah
blah, I look them straight in the eye, smile and say, "Wow! You
know, you’re probably the only person in Los Angeles who wants to
be an actor. Good luck!" They sense my sarcasm and smile back. They
even laugh, but I wonder if their egos have been bruised. I don’t
mean to crush their dreams, but I can’t help it. The realist in me
just doesn’t know when to stop.

Every time I go out, invariably, the conversation turns to The
Industry. I went out with this guy who worked in The Industry (who
doesn’t?) and he was name-dropping the entire time. I kept trying
to feel genuinely impressed, but I didn’t know who the people were,
because I only watch an hour of television a week. I gave up and
made eye contact with other intellectual-looking hotties. (Not a
nice thing to do on a date, but I had to stay awake somehow!)
Needless to say, that was the end of that.

Come to think of it, the past three guys I’ve gone out with have
been in The Industry. (Mental note to myself: break this habit!)
Ironically, they all complained about The Industry, swore they
hated it but continued to worship it. One guy told me how he pals
around with Cameron Diaz, another bragged about visiting rock
stars’ houses. While I should have said, "Who freakin’ cares," I
refrained, not wanting to be impolite.

Instead, I looked bored and distracted. I even said things such
as, "Ya know, I am not a big movie buff," or even, "I have no idea
who these people are." But nothing gave them the hint. They just
droned on and on, name-dropping no-names.

My love for theater has given me a total complex about hating
The Industry. Are they one in the same? No. I prefer the
spontaneity of theater over the safe, hidden guises of the silver
screen. I know a few so-called "actors" who actually hate theater.
They find it boring and drawn-out. God forbid they delve into
character study over a two-month run instead of a shallow,
22-minute sitcom.

On the one hand, I want to say to them "People, know the roots
of your trade!" On the other hand, I can’t blame them. Living here
makes people anxious. They want things to happen right now. A
three-hour singing and dancing musical might take too much time
away from club hopping. Living in Los Angeles is like watching the
trailer of an action flick: you’re bombarded with overpowering
images and bizarre story lines that you cannot comprehend.

We have been fooled. Los Angeles promises excitement and mystery
but doesn’t deliver. How many times has the following happened to
you?

At the beginning of the night, as you drive down the Sunset
Strip with your friends, you feel excited. The city is alive. The
mild Southern California chill makes you breathe deep (inhaling the
day’s industry), thinking about the possibilities the night may
hold. Who will you see? What/who will you do? The bright lights are
captivating, blinding. Big Rolling Stone lips on a billboard make
you feel so young.

Then, at the end of the night, as you anti-climactically drive
home, the magic is gone. The Rolling Stone lips depress you because
they are so old.

Cranky drivers yell at drunken night clubbers stumbling across
the street. Guys in leather jackets with receding hairlines (the
only ones who can afford $8 drinks) escort girls with collagen lips
who run their fake nails through the few hairs that remain. The
lights hurt your eyes. The drive to Westwood takes forever.

What a night on the town.

I reaffirmed my distaste for this city when I spent Thanksgiving
in Rocky Mount, N.C. The air was fresh, and the cheaper cost of
living allowed moderate-income families to build custom homes. I
couldn’t get enough of the big backyards and the huge gaps between
neighboring houses. This luxury is unseen in Los Angeles, where
even the richest neighborhoods are cramped and smooshed. No wonder
we all need therapists! I found myself getting nostalgic about the
dog having room to run and frolic in the backyard, and I hate dogs.
And there were trees, and it was brisk. And lots of bricks.

So let me go back East. The minute I graduate I am taking my
tassel, my culture, my need for real conversation, straight to
Boston. Screw the convertibles on 10-lane freeways, screw The
Industry, screw the excitement that comes and goes as the sun rises
and sets over the Hollywood sign. I’m outta here.Stephanie
Pfeffer

Pfeffer gives her regards to Broadway.

E-mail her at [email protected].

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