This city knows no pity; it is as alive and vibrant as a young girl, eager to enchant you with doe eyes and wonder. It fills you with hope and delight at every turn. It is a ragged and bitter whore, cursing at you under its breath as you hurriedly duck your head and walk past and pray you avoid its wrath. It is everything to some people and nothing to others. It is a living, breathing organism.
I walked it tonight. I love my apartment building; it is an enchanted castle, built in the 1920s and covered in a thick coat of ivy that insulates it from the warm summer sun and throws golden-green shadows over most everything in my little studio space. The front buzzer opens a big wrought-iron gate and the floor in the foyer is Spanish tile. Someone on the first floor is always cooking something ethnic, something spicy that vaguely reminds me of intricate hand-woven carpets and incense and veils. Someone on my hallway plays reggae too loud and always has people over, laughing. My room is right above the courtyard and sometimes a strong whiff of cigarette or pot smoke wafts up through my open French windows and makes me wrinkle my nose.
My building is on a little cul-de-sac next to a massive church with spires that kiss the sky, and if you walk to one corner you can see the top of the Capitol Records building jutting up proudly from behind a line of palm trees. If you walk the other way and wait for the light to tell you it's okay to cross, there's a little strip of shops that are heaven. A posh breakfast place, a dusty bookstore with used tomes on everything from the origins of punk rock to photography books of naked men in Nazi armbands, a record store that always has Joan Jett or Tom Waits imports shoved in mismatched, cluttered bins. There is a sushi place with four-dollar hand rolls and a too-hip-for-school waitstaff, a world-famous comedy theater that hosts cheap and free improv shows several times every day and night, a newsstand that sells anything from fifty-dollar designer candles to glossy French fashion magazines to hardcore transsexual pornography to Chapstick, a restaurant that specializes in every possible way you can cook chicken. A liquor store with hundreds of varieties of wine, a designer pet boutique, a pizza place, a doughnut shop, a high-end organic grocery store, and towering over it all, the impossible mansion structure that is the Celebrity Centre for Scientology.
I live here, in Hollywood. I walk out of my apartment and make a few turns, avoiding traffic, inhaling the millions of scents that conflict in my nose. The rancid burn of piss from doorways where the homeless huddle and whisper to themselves, murmuring in the cacophony of the mentally ill or spiritually broken. The sweet tang of bacon-wrapped sausages frying on portable hot plates, served loaded with grilled onions and peppers by sour-faced women who speak no English. The sour burn of exhaust and smog and garbage mixing with the perfume of night-blooming flowers and food trucks.
I walk across the street and suddenly the cement turns to glossy slate-gray tile with baby-pink stars embedded within, names emblazoned in gold capitals. The people who've entertained us for decades, immortalized on the ground. Tourists exclaim over favorites like Johnny Cash and Michael Jackson and Marilyn Monroe; people lay on the ground cradling the stars for photos, frame them with their feet. When a celebrity dies, their star becomes cluttered with handwritten notes, bouquets of flowers, stuffed animals, candles, trinkets. If I walk a few blocks, the Pantages Theater looms above me with larger-than-life banners advertising upcoming stage productions. Past that is a strip club, tired women with sagging silicone breasts and fake smiles cheerfully greeting men as they walk past, muscular young guns for hire handing out business cards promising free drink tickets, validated parking, all nude, no cover charge. Girls in Spandex and sequins and too-high heels totter along the pavement clinging to handsome, over-pomaded boyfriends, tittering, snapping their gum. Cabs whiz down the streets, taking little notice of pedestrians. Tourists shout in foreign languages, exclaiming over handprints sunk deep into concrete at the Chinese Theater. Teenage boys in impossibly tight clothes lean against shop fronts on Santa Monica, checking their phones for messages from their coke dealers, sweating, laughing, air-kissing, preening. Drag queens strut confidently in obscenely high heels, glittery lips and spangled eyes and wigs teased to Heaven, cackling and crowing their defiant genderfucking mantras into the streets of the gayborhood. Ethnic boys with loud cars and ghettoblasters, slicked-back hair, sharkskin suits, perfectly-coordinated shoes, gold chains, capped teeth, laughing, their girlfriends looking like extras from rap videos, smoking cigarillos. The trust fund kids in their couture, trying to look bored when their eyes drink it in like the rest of us. The tourists with their cameras, terrified of missing a thing if they stop walking for even one minute.
The city is magic and it is poison. I've never lived somewhere that makes you feel so alive and so dead, so loved and so ignored, all at once, as this one.
Tonight I had no plans and none of my friends were returning texts, so I decided to go out alone and entertain myself. I found myself at IOWest, a divey little comedy club that's given birth to such talents as Amy Poehler. Two friends were competing in an improvisation cage match, which is exactly what it sounds like. I found an empty seat, drank a diet Coke to give my hands something to do, wondered why I felt so fucking awkward. I laughed my ass off through the entire show and my guys won, their twentieth victory in a row actually.
____
I wrote the above on Thursday the 12th.
Friday the 13th was something else. I wanted so desperately to celebrate it like a real holiday the way the other horror fans do. It's the last one of the year and it took place during a full moon; seemed like kismet. My favorite party promoters in LA, The Boulet Brothers, were throwing a ridiculous slasher-themed soiree and I made plans to go with a few friends.
As always, things got derailed and I spent the night sober and trying to wrangle with reality. My depression is still a very real, tangible thing and it rears its ugly head every so often, at least once a week. I have 'good' periods where I feel euphoric, charmed, in love with everything. I have 'bad' periods where I stay in bed for an entire day, sleep too much or not at all, cry over commercials or a verse of a song, eat my weight in junk food even though it hurts my body physically to do so after my surgery.
Matt is a saint because he takes the brunt of this; he never knows when he calls me what kind of mood I'll be in. I always love him, that never changes. But he listens to my neurotic dissection of why my friends haven't called me. I rant about how if I died, it might be weeks before anyone knew because they wouldn't bother to check on me. I tell him about how much I hate my body and the skin I'm in, and how much I wish I was anyone else. I talk about how ugly I am, and how he's out of my league. He listens, sometimes patiently and sometimes just snaps "Quit that. Cut it out." I know he hates to hear me bash myself. I know it bothers him. It makes it seem like his opinion of me means nothing, that it invalidates what it is that I do like about myself. But he doesn't understand how much I hate myself, and how I have hated myself for at least twenty years now. That isn't something I know how to fix.
I have severe anxiety and when people don't text me when they say they will, when I call them and it goes to voicemail, when we make plans and they don't give me a hard committal, it makes me stress. I begin to think "Maybe they're avoiding you for a reason. Maybe you suck." This snowballs into "They have other friends. You don't. They're all hanging out without you and you're the pathetic one texting them, trying to get invited, and if they wanted you there they would've invited you." These little voices are mean and sound like pinches. They start small and then turn into these crushing boulders on my shoulders that make everything about me ache. I struggle to smile. I keep my phone turned on at all times and carry it with me to the bathroom, to the kitchen, to the front door. I find myself sending these optimistic little texts, trying to stay upbeat-sounding: Hey! I miss you! Hope you're doing okay! When I don't get a reply, I think Jesus you're pathetic. Just STOP. They have your number. I see pictures of people hanging out and I wonder why I wasn't invited. It's worse if it's someone who's been telling me we should hang out for ages but then they're too busy or we can't get our schedules coordinated. When we do make plans, say to meet at a bar at nine--- at eight-thirty I am dressed and ready, calling my cab. At eight-fifty I'm in the bar, having found us a booth and ordered a round for myself. At nine I text you I'm here! :) Got a booth in the corner! At nine-twenty I text Are you almost here? At nine-forty you come in, a breezy apology if there is one at all, and inside I breathe a sigh of relief that you're here because my brain has been monologuing for forty-two minutes now about how pathetic I am, how you aren't coming because you got a better offer of plans tonight, how you aren't coming because you forgot we made plans at all and you're out doing something else with someone else.
My anxiety has manifested itself into a full-scale panic attack more than once. The therapist I saw as a kid diagnosed it as athazagoraphobia and it's a real thing. It's an anxiety that is characterized by the fear of being forgotten or ignored, or the feeling of fear that you might accidentally forget someone else. I know what movies my friends like, their favorite bands, what they collect, what size they wear, when their birthday is. I remember every little detail I can because I want to be that kind of person who can surprise you with something you didn't even know you wanted, but I found it somewhere and thought of you and just nailed it by getting it for you. After twenty-eight years I've come to realize that this isn't something that a lot of people are afflicted with; I'm the only weirdo I know like this, actually.
My friends sometimes say things like Calm down, bitch. You know I love you. or I'm sorry I didn't call back, of course I'm not mad at you! Why would I be mad?! They don't understand that it doesn't need provocation; it's not like we got into a spat and I'm convinced you hate me. It's that I start imagining what I could've possibly done to piss you off, to get myself exiled from the group, to be excluded from plans. I start imagining every scenario and replaying every conversation we've had. I open our text history and re-read it, scanning for something I might've said that could be taken out of context or upset you. I check my email to make sure I didn't miss a message. I look at your social media to find clues of what you're doing, who you're with.
The weirdest part is that I'm not jealous, or possessive, of people. Not really. Only in the sense that I want to be a part of the circle. I don't need to be the integral part, or the top of the totem pole (to anyone but my boyfriend. That totem pole I'd better be the crowning glory on). I just need to be a part of it. I will gladly step aside for your other friends, your significant other, even strangers who want to make your acquaintance. I will vanish into the shadows or wingman the shit out of you, whatever you need. It's when I'm home alone that the demons in my head start whispering, jabbing those pinchy little fingers into my sides and starting their chants.
You aren't good enough. You aren't special. You aren't pretty. You aren't funny. You're lucky they put up with you at all. Look at you, sitting home by yourself, refreshing your social media and reading Imgur and browsing Netflix and putting off what you should be doing. You should be fine with being alone. You should go to the beach or something, get out of the fucking house. But no, you're going to lie here feeling sorry for yourself like a pathetic loser. No wonder they don't like you. No wonder they just put up with you to your face and can't wait until you go home. No wonder you are always the one making the phone calls, sending the texts, writing the emails, instead of vice versa. They don't want you here--- and who can fucking blame them?
Depression and anxiety are fucking bitches, and they cripple me sometimes. And I'm sorry for everyone else in my life who has to deal with it, who has to reassure me that I don't suck, that I'm not a waste of oxygen, that I am okay.
________
So I'm leaving LA, and I'm going back to Texas.
And honestly, even though I've had some surreal experiences here (most of them with Thomas, and often ridiculous and silly, but there was also the time I had my makeup done by FX legend Steve Johnson--- who worked on stuff like Ghostbusters, Species, Blade II--- or the time I met the artist Gary Baseman at one of his art shows, or even just the times I've gone walking down the boulevard by myself and just absorbed the city), I can honestly pinpoint what I'm going to miss the most.
There's this group of comedians called The Resistance, and they're stunt guys and actors who perform at ComedySportzLA, this improv house here in LA. The original reason I went was that Derek Mears, an actor who I've met several times and become friends with over the last few years, performs as part of the troupe and he encouraged me to come check it out. From the first time I went, I was hooked.
The concept is unique--- it's improv actors who are also stunt performers. They don't use chairs as props, they use fall mats and pads to build sets and create props. They have a live sound guy who creates soundtracks and effects for them to enhance their skit. They choose an audience member and let them shoot a dart gun at a board of movie genres, and then the audience calls out tropes for them to work from. Using those, they create a genre film in a roughly-90-minute improv skit.
In short, it's incredibly funny, spontaneous, and every time I've been I've had a blast.
Derek might have been my gateway to The Resistance, but he left shortly after I began attending in order to film something (Sleepy Hollow, I think), and I kept going. It was one of the funniest things I'd ever seen, consistently, week after week. I knew the guys on a very superficial level--- Chris, Kurt, Ryan, Justin, Other Kurt, and Derek. They were not only hysterically funny and talented, but they were also nice. They stuck around after the shows to talk to fans, they gave great sweaty hugs to people when they got offstage, they were self-deprecating and real and fun on Facebook. I kind of loved them. Not in a crushy-weird way, obviously, but because they just seemed to be genuinely good guys who were having fun, working as a single unit whose sole purpose was to entertain people and make them laugh.
I've gone to about nine of their performances now, and I've only actually talked to the guys twice in person. I always turn socially-awkward when they come around me, though I'm not entirely sure why because I've seen them be sweet and wide open and friendly to all of their fans. I usually hang back, leaning against a wall or standing outside checking my phone, too shy to tell them how great I think they did. Later, I go home and post cell phone pictures on Facebook and make sure to comment on their page to tell them my favorite moments or to let them know how funny the skit was that night.
Every show, they invite people to come out with them to The Cat and Fiddle, this little pub on Sunset.
Every time, I don't go.
Last week, I did go. I had my Uber drive me to the pub, and I walked in. A little nervous. A jazz band on the stage, people milling around, candles. I didn't see anyone I recognized. Maybe, as usual, I was early. Maybe I had jumped the gun in rushing straight from the show to the pub. Maybe they'd trickle in after twenty minutes or so. I went inside and sat at a vacant table, having no idea where I was 'supposed' to go. Did they have a designated spot? Was there a certain booth? Were they always on the patio and I was sitting inside like a douchebag? I ordered a Diet Coke. I'd get something stronger, maybe, when someone got there. Maybe there would be joking and laughing and actually talking to them. They seemed like cool guys. I'd seen most of their girlfriends, all of them beautiful girls who came to cheer for their boys, who seemed cool because you have to be cool to date a comedian, to go to his shows and support him, right? Maybe I could make friends with some of the other fans, who shared my interest in improv and comedy, who laughed alongside me. Surely someone in that crowd would be someone I could also see movies with, or call when I was bored and ask them to get sushi with me.
I waited and drank my diet Coke, nervously checking my phone, looking at the door. No one showed up that I recognized, and after about fifteen minutes I paid my tab and called another car. I practically dove into it, embarrassed even though there was no one there to judge me, even though no one in the pub knew that I had fucked this up. I knew my cheeks were hot and I berated myself the ride home. You misunderstood, you went to the wrong pub, you got there too early, you are such a loser was the mantra. I went home, changed for bed, and turned on Netflix. I had failed again in my attempt to be social. I had fucked up.
What these guys maybe don't realize is that for someone like me, someone who puts up this front of being wild and open and carefree, who goes to clubs in outrageous outfits and crazy makeup--- they don't know how brave I think they are. How much I admire them for getting onstage as a single unit made up of individual parts, and not only thinking on their feet but commanding the attention of an entire room full of people. Of making them laugh.
The Resistance don't know me. They don't know me from any other audience member--- I'm a name on Facebook, I'm a somewhat-vaguely-familiar face. They've shocked me once or twice recently by knowing things like that I'm moving back to Texas or that I work as a photographer, because even though I've added them on Facebook I didn't really assume that they actually read anything on my page. But they don't know me, and to them I'm just a name and a ticket and a face.
But they have saved my weekend more than once. There've been a lot, more than I care to admit, where I am sitting in my apartment, full of self-loathing, staring at the ceiling with zero missed calls and zero missed texts and zero invites to go anywhere, wondering what the fuck I'm doing with myself, with my life, with my career, with my anything, and then I remember that it's Sunday and that the Resistance is that night. I get up and I get dressed. I wait impatiently until about 8:30 because they almost never start on time. I call my cab and I go to ComedySportzLA and I buy my ticket. Sometimes I splurge on a glass-bottled Diet Coke from the concession stand. I sit by myself in the lobby, and I can't even check my phone because there's no signal in the building there, so I just nervously eye the screen and pretend that I have some fascinating texts or emails I have to read. This keeps me from having to make eye contact with anyone, from having to make small talk.
And then one of them, sometimes Kurt, sometimes Ryan or Justin, will open the door and yell "Come on! Hurry!" and people begin to rush the doors, scrambling for seats, laughing and yelling back, and the lights go down and the Resistance take the stage and there, in the dark, I am not alone. I am not pathetic and anxious and lonely. I am laughing and I am happy, and for ninety minutes I am a part of the world they build with mats and sound effects and spur-of-the-moment pop culture references.
It may sound stupid or cheesy, but I am in love with this troupe because of this simple fact, and they are the thing I will miss most in LA.
