L.A. meant the Beach Boys and Annette Funicello and the Beverly Hillbillies and bleached blondes and burnouts, beaded curtains and cults and other crazies. But there was always the taco connection, the Cheech and Chong of it all, the lowriders and the surf guitars, the Kenneth Angers and the rumors of the secret rituals that kept it all afloat. There was another side. Mystery, in other words.
Turns out there are many sides to Los Angeles. It’s a vast urban sprawl, a collection of cities that overlap and contrast with one another. There’s extreme wealth—around 50 billionaires live here, including some suit named “Jose Feliciano,” (and no, he’s not the good Jose Feliciano, the guy who gave us “Feliz Navidad,” he’s a private equity billionaire) and excepting fake smart guy edgelord idol Elon Musk, who left town and lives in Texas now—and there’s also extreme poverty and homelessness. There’s Chinatown and Little Tokyo and Koreatown and Highland Park and Boyle Heights and Hollywood and Venice Beach and the little old ladies from Pasadena and lots of others I haven’t had the time to see on this trip.
But the only thing that has truly shocked me this week is how friendly the people of Los Angeles have been toward me. Being from the south, I never bought into the idea of southern hospitality. But this isn’t supposed to be another tirade against the town where I live and have never felt at home. It’s supposed to be in praise of the town I’m visiting. So I’ll quit by saying that I love it here in California, and that I feel at home and at ease here in ways I’ve never felt back in South Carolina and Texas.
Los Angeles
April 30, 2023
