August 25-31st, 2006 - Three Introductions: Part IIIa

My most recent trip to LA was by far the most surreal--felt the most like exploring a foreign country where you might speak the language, but the systems of motion, the customs, the buildings, the foliage, the air, all feel alien.

I was visiting my special friend Mark's parents in Orange county. They are quite religious. Mark is an atheist, and I don't know what I am, but I'm definitely not into organized religion, and especially not Christianity. I know some wonderful Christians, but for me they don't outweigh the number of Christians that use their faith like a weapon.

We were given separate bedrooms, and we said grace before each meal, and we all went to church on Sunday morning. Mark's father gave the sermon and his mother gave the children's ministry. I had trouble deciding whether I should just stand politely while they all listlessly sang "Oh God you are so nice" songs, or if I should mouth the words shown on the enormous television screens on either side of the organ.

Mark was singing, which I found confusing. He does like to sing, but he's also very vocally anti-Christianity. Later, when I asked him about it, he said he was showing off for me, which clarified nothing.

After hanging out with Mark's parents for 3 or 4 days, we headed for LA to meet up with Mark's friend, Tom, whom I'd met two or three times before.

Tom moved from Chicago to LA about three years ago, to pursue directing. He's starting to get regular work, but he's still broke, at the beginning of things. Mark's parents dropped us off by a giant neon hand that was the identifying landmark for Tom's apartment.

Tom wasn't home yet, walked around the neighborhood, looking for a public bathroom. Tom lived on a main drag, an enormous 4-lane LA standard. The Subway Sandwiches had no bathroom, and the hardware store, paint store, and others of that ilk didn't look promising, so we ventured away from the street.

There was a quiet little side street with a series of bungalows and two-flats running parallel to Tom's street.

"I could see living someplace like this," I said.

"Mm hm," Mark noncommitted.

I wondered how much more expensive these places were, as opposed to those on the main street. Everything feels expensive compared to Chicago, where you can live in a centrally located 1-bedroom on a beautiful tree-lined street, walking distance from the lake and the train, for $850. Or, if you're willing to live a little further from the lake and train, you can do it for $600 and get a separate dining room thrown in.

We found an alley to pee in, playing look-out for one another. Mark and I had already decided we were going to move out together, in February. To me, then, this trip was half-vacation and three-quarters scouting.

We eventually met up with Tom, who looked tired. He was wearing a grungy undershirt and black pants sloppily rolled up, showing mismatched socks.

"I was shooting all day," he said, hauling his box fan out of the closet and into the open front doorway. "Stuffy in here. And they haven't paid me yet for the last two weeks."

"Woah. Are they going to?" Mark asked.

"We'll see," Tom said, collapsing in a 1970's brown overstuffed chair.

His studio was painted an awful sort of taupe, and got very little light or air. Maybe mostly because he'd put egg crate foam over the main window to block the street noise and light so he could sleep at night.

Tom got up to make coffee while we waited for his girlfriend, Katherine, to arrive. He rifled around in his kitchen and came back with a bit of newspaper.

"This is for you," he said, handing it to me. "It's about this woman who blogs about getting into writing for television. I think it's probably pretty useful."

"Wow, awesome, thank you," I said, flattered that Tom had thought of me.

When Katherine arrived, we took off in separate cars to get some beer, run by Katherine's for a smoke and to drop Tom's truck off, and then head for the ocean. I automatically followed Mark to Tom's truck. Tom's cell rang.

"Yeah. Ok, sure," he hung up. "Maddy, Katherine says you should ride with her."

"Oh, okay," I said, and trotted off to Katherine's sedan. We chatted easily on the way to our various errands. She turned out to be from Ohio. We all stopped into her apartment in Santa Monica to smoke. It was a "bachelor," which meant it had no kitchen, just a microwave and a little stove top and a small fridge. In a place that's supposed to be a gastronomical wasteland, as Tom claimed, I had trouble understanding the phenomenon of the bachelor apartment.

Moods significantly altered, we drove out away from city lights, and found a spot on the sand to sit and stare at the stars and waves. The couples curled up against the breeze, and we passed around a couple kinds of gourmet beer.

"So it seems like LA has enough people of substance to be socially sustainable, you know?" I said, my head spinning in activity, trying to predict my future. "I mean, there's the whole image industry, but there are non-imaginary people around, too, and I think with some time everything will drop itself into a matrix that makes sense. I mean that takes time anywhere you live, and if you're somewhere with other people with similar goals, I would think it would be a help," I spewed. There was no response. How long had I been talking? I was too high.

I kept trying to shut up, paranoid that I was talking too much, but I kept finding myself chattering away again.

"Do you guys go camping much?" I asked.

"Not enough," Mark said. "But when you guys come out, we can go whenever. For weekends and stuff."

They'd hit my fantasy for LA: besides writing work, the one thing LA has over Chicago, to me, is an abundance of beautiful places nearby. "That would be awesome," I said. "We won't have a car, but...."

"We don't mind driving" Katherine said.

"Yeah," Tom agreed.

"That's awesome," I said. "And I would totally be happy to pay for the gas or whatever, to make it fair." No response. Crap, that was probably tacky, bringing up money. Even Mark was silent.

But even with both feet crammed in my mouth and my mouth still running in spite of myself, it was clear that Tom really wanted us to move out to LA. He and Katherine like Midwesterners, and wanted more of them to play with. And Tom especially wants Mark to come out. They are good friends.

Tom stayed with Katherine for the night, so that Mark and I could use his bed. When I saw his apartment at night, I understood the appeal: it was a cozy, private little cave for relaxing and sleeping. We slept well, snuggled up together in Tom's bed.

(to be continued) (dot dot dot)