California, California
You’re such a wonder
That I think I’ll stay in bed
-Rufus Wainwright
Well, it’s official, I’ve cracked. I’m moving to Los Angeles.
Actually, it’s been official for a few weeks now, I just haven’t gotten around to expositing about it because I’ve been kind of lazy about writing in here lately. So, here goes:
I swore for the longest time that I would never, ever, ever move to Los Angeles. It’s a snakepit, full of scum-sucking sycophants and unbreatheable air. It’s The Fakest Place On Earth.
It’s also, by and large, a one-industry town. That was one of the things that drove me apeshit about D.C.: You could never get away from politics, ever. I’ve been warned that L.A. is the same way, except its topic is entertainment.
Granted, I enjoy bullshitting about entertainment more than bullshitting about politics, but it’s difficult to only have one topic of conversation for a long time without wanting to tear your hair out.
However, it’s also the only place I have a chance of getting a job right now. Six months of looking have taught me nothing but a) the only jobs I have a shot at with my experience are in L.A. and b) I have to physically be there to get them.
I also realized after working as a waitress for a couple of months that I really don’t like being a waitress. The people I work with are awesome, and if I were working with them at a normal job, it’d be great.
It’s the customers that drive me apeshit. I like people, but I like them when I’m not dealing with them on a servant/master basis, which is how most of the people at the location I work at seem to see the staff.
I don’t like having completely unpredictable hours and a constantly wavering source of income. I don’t like coming home so tired that I don’t have the energy to do…anything. I can’t believe some of the people I work with have kids. I can barely deal with myself after a bad shift.
I don’t care if I have to work 70 hours a week, as long as I have a reasonably good idea of what those hours will be and I have enough money so that I can go blow off some steam at the end of the night.
And if I have to do that, I’m at least doing it in an industry I somewhat enjoy, despite all the sharks and sycophants.
So I’m leaving Chicago in mid-August with my stuff (saving money by moving with someone who wants to be out earlier than I do) and then flying back for my car and taking another of my trademark Ridiculously Long Roadtrips.
If I’m moving out West, then I damn well better knock off the last four of the 50 states I’ve never been to (North and South Dakota, Montana, and Oregon), and I’m stopping in Idaho to visit my dad and in San Fran since I haven’t been there in about 15 years. It’ll certainly be fun.
I’m trying to find a place to live that’s at least semi-close to the beach. I figure if I’m going to bite the bullet, I might as well at least find someplace where I can go to the ocean on a daily basis.
This leads me to sit around pondering such thesis topics as Surfing vs. Sea Kayaking: Which Should I Take Up?, though I should probably be figuring out things like Begging Parents vs. Whoring: How The Fuck Am I Going To Pay My Rent Until I Get A Job?
I’m not really as excited as I probably ought to be, but I’m quite relieved that I’ve finally overcome the mental paralysis of the last seven months of my life and actually made a decision about my future.
I joke to people that I’m telling about my move that I decided I needed direction in my life, and decided that West was a direction. Like most of my jokes, this one has a lot of truth to it.
I’ve also been getting more and more signals that Chicago wants me out. 2 surgeries, 2 jobs that drive me nuts, assorted other maladies and mental issues, all of which have cropped up in the seven months since I graduated.
I realize it sounds a bit, well, fruit loopy to suggest that the Universe has been sending me unconscious signals to get the fuck out of Chicago, but everything that’s happened has convinced me further that I just need a change of scenery, so I’m heading out to L.A.
God help me.