Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Me too, Randy Newman. Me too.


The iconic image of "I (heart) NY" slides by without question, and sets such a high standard that any other "I (heart)______" imagery is a fraud, a little brother trying on a too-big jersey and attempting to sneak into the big kids' game. Nobody "hearts" a city the way that they heart NY, apparently; in particular, nobody hearts LA.

I Chase LA

Why does "I (Heart) LA" seem contrived, rigid, or pained? When a person walks down the streets of LA wearing any kind of loving paraphernalia, the Angeleno knows that person is a tourist, someone who only loves LA because he doesn't know it or understand it. Los Angeles is exactly what outsiders say it is; shallow, unforgiving, without permanence, mismatched. Its flaws are its age-lines and scars, and its once-lovely face becomes gnarled with time; a face only a mother could love. Truly, I think the most difficult part about loving this city is that it refuses to love you back.

Its warmth only lingers for a few moments in the evening, the only time it doesn't burn; its shadows remain cool and indifferent to you, occasionally offering a menacing darkness in an otherwise cheerful afternoon. Its women look like palm trees, tall and thin with a graceful rigidity; they are beautiful but so numerous as to be forgotten or ignored. The city hurries, it loiters, it swells with its own self-importance. Traffic moves like sticky sap, filling the creases and wrinkles of the streets; storefronts appear and fade with the rapidity of evolving crazes and fads (goodbye cupcakes, hello Pinkberry). Each paper billboard wilts with the outdated fashion it boasts; it stares with envy and sadness at the rotating electronic billboard which never grows tired, enthralled with its own newness, eager to please.

LA is a jealous lover; it deliberately forgets you when you travel, its muggy summers seal your doors shut with the glue of humidity and neediness as it begs you to stay outside a few more moments, promises to breathe cool air on you, and blazes on spitefully if you refuse.

LA is a scorned woman who doesn't forget the tragedy of loss or violence. She brightens and subdues hundreds of times per day as she converses at length with the sun. She smells of white linen and Coppertone, her music is that of diesel engines and the lone street performer. She sleeps outside in Summer, wraps up inside herself in Winter, casually sprinkles a few dead leaves to remind you when its Fall.

Los Angeles is simultaneously bustling and lonely, absorbed in its own independence but desperate for the adoration of others. It has no time to love you, no time to establish landmarks, to preserve your childhood. Photographs are fantasies of a life no one remembers but you; time changes in the way you remember it, a secret between you and the dust of the city.

We don't love LA for its history or for its reflexive pride. We don't fall in love with endless construction or hide-and-seek parking. We love the city because it allows us to but refuses to indulge us so that we keep coming back for more. We remember the streets we've lived on, the friends who wander around for years never quite finding home again. LA doesn't let us leave before we've had one more drink, one more sunny afternoon; before long, we've stayed another decade when we meant to get home before dark.

Someday I'll leave to find out why so many people wear the names of their cities with pride on their chests; I'll explore the alleyways and gray-skied coasts of the Eastern Seaboard, or the dry, thirsty heat of the deserts. But I'll come home to the city that gave me my first kiss and my first baseball game, pleading forgiveness for leaving her; I'll come back to find a whole new city, aged with the memories of millions of past lovers.
I'll keep chasing LA.

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