Thanksgiving has me thinking about hometowns, mostly because you can’t meander into any conversation that happens the week leading up to Thanksgiving without being asked, “Are you staying in town for the holidays? Going home to see family?”
“Yes,” I usually reply, “My parents live here, I’m from here, actually.”
My response leaves most people aghast. It’s the same every time. Whether the conversation arises during holiday drone or in small talk over dinners, people, are always, without fail, surprised to learn that a few of us are indeed Angelenos. We didn’t come here on a bus with a dream; we grew up here. Went to school. Snuck into clubs. Learned the curves of Sunset. Spent formidable years learning how to avoid traffic and the Valley. But this, for some bizarre reason, is a hard concept for most to swallow.
“Really!” they’ll exclaim, “but you don’t even seem like you’re from L.A.”
This sentiment has bothered me for some time now. It’s a frustrating head-scratcher, because on the one hand, I take this as a compliment; Los Angeles, admittedly, has its issues. But the part that bothers me most is the reason why I don’t fit the mold of the Angeleno. It is because I am routinely measured against busloads of idiots who come here thinking they are going to “make it.” They adopt an attitude and a persona. They infiltrate everything.
They move into trendy apartment complexes like the Crescent. They plow through the nightlife circuit. They buy bottles to make friends. They blabber incessantly loud about the night before over brunch. They share bedrooms in order to make rent, but tote Louis Vuitton bags.
Most of all, they give us locals a bad rap, because, despite contrary opinion, people from L.A. aren’t that bad. We aren’t necessarily vapid. Most of us don’t give two shits about Kitson or The Ivy. We don’t post pictures of ourselves on Facebook talking about where we were last night, who we saw, how we’re “ballin’”.
Take for example, this caption I found on a friend of a friends page:
“Front Row, Jay Z, Eminem and Friends. Priceless. Well actually according to Stub Hub about $7000 per ticket, but who is counting…”
You are counting you idiot. I can’t believe I know people who hang out with you.
I saw a special kind of asshole driving his blacked-out Range Rover headed east on Sunset the other day. His license plate read, WERUNLA.
We Run LA.
I highly doubt that you, or any of your friends, “run” L.A. It made my stomach turn over. Twice. But then he cut someone off and sped through a red light.
I went to a “dinner” the other night. Or, more-aptly described: The other night, I went to a free dinner for slutty girls who wear slutty dresses, and who will most likely sleep with you, your friend, and the old dude at the club you go to later that night.
Most models in LA are whores. Literally. Paid. For. Services. Rendered. It isn’t a secret.
I was there out of convenience- invited by a friend who runs with a sometimes-questionable crowd for the perks. Again, not noble. I understand my hypocrisy. If you want to avoid the shit, stay away from the assholes. I went willingly. But in my defense, I was hungry, poor, could use a nice steak, and I wore what someone nicely deemed a poncho. He then went on to ask me if I would be picking coffee beans later. Someone later that night kindly pointed this out to me as well. “I don’t mean to be a dick,” he began, “but do you realize you’re wearing a blanket in a club?”
“I’m cold,” I told him. “It’s raining.” Needless to say, I wasn’t his type. I was crushed.
At any rate, at the beginning of the night, I sat on the end of the table, making small talk with the friend who I came with, and listening girls I didn’t know blabber about their bodies, their nails, their castings, etc. I watched them chain-smoke cigarettes, pick at their free food, and grab at French fries that they twirled around their mouths for pictures- fries that were dropped to plates as soon as the camera disappeared.
They talked about what other girls were wearing, about cute boys, and they wondered aloud why they were still single. They flapped their arms when any song came on.
Oh my GOD! THIS is my absolute FAVORITE song!
Then there was the girl- one who literally came to Los Angeles on a Greyhound bus- who claimed, “I only fly private.”
These dinners’ only saving grace is that you can crack jokes that won’t be understood. But such moments are a small consolation. Especially when the next blowhard is waiting around the corner.
I even come across this kind of loudmouth behavior at my yoga studio. “You know who I hit on the other night?” the braggart behind the counter asked. “Carey Mulligan.” I’m not sure if this was supposed to be impressive, but it wasn’t.
Even worse, the other night, after I refused his offer to buy me a drink, a man said, “Listen, I’m on Nickelodeon, I have tons of money. I just left Soho House. Let’s go back to my penthouse.”
I had no words. Actually, I lie. I was polite. I said, “No thanks, I don’t do Nick at Nite.”
But come this Thursday, when the streets are clear and I’m gathered around my family table, I will give thanks.
Thanks that everyone went home, if only for a few days.
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Like the angle to this. Very relatable. Everyone’s hometown has its flaws, but hey, it’s home. Personally, I was born and raised in a college town–Iowa City where the U of Iowa is located–so the same thing happens to me when students ask “where are you going for the holidays?” There are definitely students from out of state (ok, Chicago suburbs) that sometimes give the UI and Iowa City a bad reputation. To be honest, my hometown is the best when the college is on break. The locals take back the downtown bars, etc. So I am also thankful that “everyone went home, if only for a few days.” Nice article.
In my greyhounder opinion (actually ’99 Grand Prix), LA is just like any other city. It has a lot of assholes and then it has some reasonable people too. A lot of those assholes are from other places but some of those assholes are from LA. I think the difference lies in the fact that the foreigners do the assholic behavior described above when they move here at 22, while the Angelenos do it when they are 17.
Which brings me to my views toward most natives: I think it’s really hard to grow up in a big city. Now it’s certainly possible to reach adulthood as a normal, productive member of society but it requires some serious parenting. As someone who has spent a lot of time in LA high schools I can say that big city kids grow up much faster than us country folk. And this hyper-speed upbringing can lead to some…shall we say…insanity. So in some ways, I do think ‘normal’ is somewhat of a rare characteristic among natives, not only because of my theory on upbringing, but my experiences with people my age who are from LA. Not to say that normal or cool is out of the realm of possibilities, it just takes a little more effort.